Death's Reckoning (19 page)

“Move your ass,” Jerrod said and started walking forward, “or I’ll bury you neck deep in a hole where you belong.”

Zandor smiled. “That’s more like it.”

The rain continued to pound down upon them as they reached a simple stone walkway, smooth and uninterrupted as they headed for the edifice. A large dwelling pressed up against the rock formations as if it were a part of it. It nestled down into natural and man-made stone structures.

Another shack, similar to the first one in size but made of stone rose out of the darkness and made them turn their heads. A man stood behind the half door on the front. The top portion was open like a ticket salesman for the theater. He peered at the two of them through the muck and waved them on. “Hurry up, will ya? You’re late enough as it is.”

Without another word the man turned away and slammed the door closed. Jerrod and Zandor looked at each other and moved on. They continued down the pathway, which sloped and ended at a metal gate within a stone archway. It looked like a prison entrance, albeit a clean, well-constructed one designed to keep people out more than in. The gate had a heavy iron lock. Jerrod assumed whoever the two of them were supposed to be would have a key on them, but it didn’t matter.

Zandor picked the lock with ease and pulled the heavy iron door back. It scraped across the stone walkway. The hinges were weakening, and thus it leaned to the outside. Sconces lined the walls of a dark foyer, and besides a very comfortable looking couch on the side wall, there was nothing much else of interest.

“What now, smart guy?” Jerrod said and nudged Zandor in the shoulder.

“Easy, now. Tanner’s gotta be here somewhere. He won’t be that hard to find.”

So far, Jerrod wasn’t too impressed with the security. There wasn’t much stopping anyone from coming up this way and doing what they were doing. And he realized then that Zandor didn’t have everything planned out. If so, they wouldn’t be stumbling around in the dark.

It was like him to go by instinct if he were the same man Jerrod knew from a decade ago. He was an intelligent man, and his gut calls were not luck but rather the sum of his extensive experience. It was risky but worth it most of the time. Either way, they were in.

Zandor opened a door at the far end, and they entered a large open room with a large ornate stairway curling around the right side and up into darkness. They stood for a few moments, both of them glancing around at the empty room, most of it lost in darkness.

The air was still, oppressive even, like a cave, and considering how far they had traveled downhill, they might even be under ground as it was.

“Uh, upstairs is as good a place to start as any,” Zandor said, scratching his chin.

Jerrod scoffed. “Some plan ya got there, fancy man. Thought you had it all figured out, yeah? Stupid bastard.”

Zandor frowned and started towards the staircase, mumbling some general insult under his breath about Jerrod’s genealogy. Jerrod smiled for getting a rise out of him at last. It meant Zandor’s frustration was genuine.

They searched the second and third floors with no success. It was nothing but empty rooms. It appeared deserted as if someone very rich had lived there long ago and given it up. Dust covered white sheets draped over what looked like very expensive furniture and other finely appointed items that belonged in the most beautiful mansions Sea Haven’s upper echelon could afford.

They gave up the search on the upper floors and went back to the ground level. They turned right when they reached the bottom of the main stairway and headed for what looked like a kitchen. It was a large room, big enough for a dozen staff, with the same marble appointments the rest of the house enjoyed. Jerrod figured whoever built it used the very stone the mountains around them. Smart idea.

The kitchen looked lived in. This evidence gave them hope they were at least closer to finding answers. Zandor went to the island counter in the center of the room. It must have taken twenty men to move the beautiful, single piece of. He put his hands on the counter and shook his head.

“Something’s not right here. I figured he was kind of a recluse, but I don’t think Tanner would be the type of guy to let a place like this slide. What with all this money coming in.” He hefted the bundle and Jerrod heard it jingle. This particular haul had been good, that was obvious. Whatever trouble the two of them had been through this night, they could leave with that and call it square if needed.

“Maybe he’s crazy,” Jerrod said. “Old man like that. Livin’ up here all alone.”

Zandor didn’t buy it. “No, that’s the thing, son. Tanner wasn’t alone. He had a family, see? I thought we might be able to use ‘em, threaten them, get him to let us run the gambling in Sea Haven in exchange for keeping them protected. Now we don’t have that leverage.”

“A knife in the gut settles a lot of that talk real quick.”

Zandor made an annoyed sound in his throat and shook his head. “Tanner wouldn’t break, not from any kind of physical torture. And we can’t kill him. We don’t understand the details of how this all works, how he gets the money, who his contacts are… we need him alive, Jerry.”

Impatience flared. “I thought you had this all worked out.”

“Take it easy. No plan is perfect. We got some pull here. There are some people here to question.”

“We need to find this son of a bitch, then. These slugs ain’t gonna know shit.”

He stormed off from the kitchen and into a vast storage room filled with food and casks of ale and wine. The stores were fresh, and no dust covered the floors.

“Somebody’s livin’ here,” he said over his shoulder as Zandor caught up to him. “We can find him.”

Zandor ran by him, scouting out ahead down along an empty hallway. Not even covered furniture marred it. At the end of this, they found another section of the house, perhaps the servant’s quarters judging by the simple accruement. That was assuming they had servants here.

They looked through a few more rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms, a large family room, and when they reached the last room down a hallway, there was a man sleeping on his back.

The sleeper was overweight, wearing clothes that were too tight and not made for him. Though they were expensive clothes fit for a nobleman, he looked no less ridiculous wearing them. When they stepped into the room, he sat up, yawned and looked annoyed.

“You’re here,” the young man said, swinging his legs down from the bed and standing. “I was waiting for you. You’re late.” He frowned, his fleshy face scrunching up when he saw Jerrod coming in next. “Why’d you bring Giles all the way in here? Is there a problem?” It dawned on him in that instant these were not the men he thought, and his eyes went wide in shock and fear. “Please, wait! Who are you? What are you doing here? Don’t kill me!”

Jerrod stepped forward and shoved the man back onto the bed. “Shut yer mouth, maggot.” He pulled a knife and held it at his neck. “Don’t say another word unless we ask you a question. Got it?”

The man started to open his mouth, thought better of it, and nodded instead.

Zandor crossed his arms and looked around the room. He glanced back to the blubbering fat man prostrated on the bed.

“Well, bubba, I think it’s safe to say you ain’t the brains behind this operation. Where’s Tanner McDowell?”

The man looked up with a frantic twist of his head to both men. A look of confusion, then realization spread on his strained features within a moment. Stark terror struck home and his voice rose to a shriek. “Oh, no. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything! You gotta believe me. Please!”

Jerrod slapped him hard enough to stop him from blubbering. “Answer the question, meat bag. Where is he?”

The man took a few shuddering breaths and got control of himself. He looked at them and plunged on. “You two really don’t know?” Jerrod stepped forward, and the man shouted. “He’s dead! Okay? Been dead two years now, almost three.”

Jerrod felt his arms go limp. “Son of a bitch.”

Zandor strode forward and grabbed the man by his too tight collar and hauled him up off the bed. The man was heavy, but the weight didn’t seem to bother Zandor in the slightest. It was as easy as lifting a bag of potatoes. “What do you mean he’s dead? You better start explaining yourself, mister. Right this second.”

Over the course of several minutes, with minimal cajoling from either of them, the man seemed to want to tell his story as if he were confessing a crime. He told them that close to three years ago, Tanner McDowell died from natural causes, a heart condition caused by too much liquor and too much stress. His associates found themselves at a crossroads.

On one hand, they wanted the money to keep coming in, but since McDowell was the figurehead and boss whom all others paid tribute to and the key to the entire organization with all the ties and connections, they had to find some way to keep it all rolling along. So they made up a story that he was retiring from active involvement. No longer wanting to be in harm’s way, he would never show his face again. Considering there had been a failed assassination attempt a few months prior, no one questioned this.

The operation kept plugging along with no one the wiser amongst any of those connected with the arena and betting tents. They also negotiated a higher percentage in the process since Tanner would no longer be able to give personal attention, and this gave the runners of the arena and tents even more reason to capitulate.

“It’s been working,” the man said, sounding much calmer though still frightened. “This whole time, everything’s been fine. See, no one asks to see Tanner. We gave his family enough money to keep quiet about things, so there has never been a problem with that. People in Sea Haven never question anything.”

The man sighed, and his eyes got a faraway look to them. “But I knew this would happen. I knew we’d be found out. Had to happen at some point. Sooner or later it had to. Guess we got lazy, hording all this money up here, living the good life, thinking we were safe. I should have said something to the others.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” Jerrod said.

The man glanced at him as if it were the dumbest question ever uttered. “Me and the others,” he said as if that explained it all.

Zandor, who had listened to the whole story with patient intensity, spoke. “Who is still part of the operation? Be specific. Tell me who is here and working like before.”

“Well, all of us. All the guys that were close to the day-to-day work. Not many, but we have enough.”

“How many people know that Tanner McDowell is dead?”

The man scrunched up his face. “Oh, I’d say about seven, not including his family. There’s me, Giles, Barber, uh, Stevens, Ginatti, McGivens, uh, let’s see… oh, and Ignacio knows. He stays put in Sea Haven most of the time, makes sure everything runs smooth there. I’m Stan.” The man gave an awkward smile.

Zandor rubbed his face and looked thoughtful for a while. Jerrod grew restless, trying to figure out what it all meant. All this talk was a waste of time. They needed to round up these knuckleheads, beat them senseless, and set up their own group of money baggers.

“So the six of you here,” Zandor said. “You stay to keep up appearances, to make it look like McDowell is still operating things and living here. That about right? Hmm, that might work okay.”

It wasn’t a question at all. Zandor was only talking to himself, but Stan didn’t see it. The fat man looked crestfallen. “Yeah, been working fine so far. We been splitting McDowell’s share between all of us up here, which is a lot more than he paid us before, I tell you that! Ha!” Jerrod glared at him. “Um, yeah, well, we give Ignacio his share as well, for keeping us informed of what’s going on in town. And we give McDowell’s family a cut every month.

“We take turns. In either the house or in either one of the guard shacks, but we make sure at least three of us are here at all times. Sometimes four, like tonight, because the money was coming here.”

Zandor stopped. “So there’s one more fella here somewhere unaccounted for. I’m sure you’ll help us fine him.”

Stan’s nod was emphatic.

“Where are the other two?”

Stan shrugged. “Not sure. I’d say they were somewhere spending their money, drinking, gambling, spending time at Madam Dreary’s. Ha! That’s where I was going after this week’s shift was over.” He smiled but sobered at Jerrod’s look. “Yeah, well, they ain’t scheduled to come back until we rotate shifts in a few days, it’s once a week like we been doing.”

Zandor said nothing. After a moment his eyes met Jerrod’s, and the larger man could see the machinations going on behind his intense orbs. Zandor turned back to Stan.

“Turn around, son.” Stan blanched and started blubbering again, but Jerrod was on him in an instant. He grabbed his shoulders, stood him up, and spun him around up against the wall. “Tie him up for second,” Zandor said. Jerrod wasted no time doing so.

He put him face down on the bed while the two of them went off to the other side of the large bedroom where their captive wouldn’t hear them.

“What do you make of it all?” Zandor said.

Jerrod took a breath and looked back to Stan’s prostrate form. “I think most of our work’s been done for us. We need to find these other bastards, slit their throats one by one, and take this operation over with our own men.”

Zandor nodded, his face lost behind the hood of his cloak. “I thought you’d say that. Listen, Jerry, let me take the lead on this one. I have a simpler idea; it’ll work, trust me. If you can keep yourself under control, we can make out real well here, real well. You gotta promise me you’ll listen. And follow.”