The Rivals (19 page)

Libby was grateful that Hank Studdard, the captain of the jail, was a hunter, and that she'd taken him on a couple of guided trips without charging him any fee. An enormous, trophy-sized stuffed turkey he'd bagged on one of their trips occupied the corner of Hank's office. Hank's noble, if homely bird, of which he was infinitely proud, stood as tall as a four-year-old boy and had saggy red wattles and a stringy black beard.

When she'd called and asked Hank if she could come to the jail to talk to Clay, he'd said, “Don't know why you'd want to march through that circus of reporters outside, but I owe you one, so come on. By the way, your daddy's here.”

Her breath had caught in her chest. “What?”

“King Grayhawk himself,” Hank said. “Said he has a word or two to say to the judge about bail for this prisoner.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes, Hank,” she'd said.

“Come to the back door,” he said, “and I'll let you in.”

The Teton County Jail was in a separate building across the parking lot from the sheriff's office, and as she'd feared, both buildings were surrounded by camera crews and reporters who'd flown in from television stations around the country. She parked three blocks away and forced herself to walk slow enough that she didn't end up slipping and breaking her neck on the melting ice and snow.

She rang the buzzer at the back door and Hank let her in. “Come on in, sweetie,” he said. “Your daddy's been keeping us all in stitches.”

Libby stared at her father in disbelief. Her daughter was missing. A girl was dead. And all her father could do was make jokes, no doubt at Clay's expense. That was King Grayhawk, vindictive to the end.

“Where's Clay Blackthorne?” Libby asked the captain. “I'd like to talk to him.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Hank said. “No one gets in to see him.”

“On the phone you promised—”

Hank shrugged. “Can't help it, sweetie. Didn't know there were going to be so many folks around.”

“Why did you let me in, if you weren't going to let me see him?” Libby asked with asperity.

A deputy approached Hank and whispered in his ear.

“Now the shit will hit the fan,” Hank muttered.

“What's wrong?” Libby asked.

“Seems that boy's daddy has shown up here on my doorstep.”

“Jackson Blackthorne is here?” Libby glanced at her father, who was regaling a circle of deputy sheriffs with another story.

Hank followed her gaze and said, “Don't see how I can get King to leave or the other to stay away. Bound to be some fireworks here in a minute.”

“Let me talk to Mr. Blackthorne,” she said. “Maybe I can convince him that this isn't the best time—”

She was too late. Jackson Blackthorne had evidently talked his way inside.

Libby was amazed at how much alike her father and Blackjack looked. Both were tall, both broad-shouldered, both still lean.

Blackjack's hair was silver, his brows black, his gray eyes as implacable as stone. He was wearing a dark blue Western suit, with a crisply starched white Western shirt held at the throat by a silver bolo tie. He stood with his feet widespread in expensive alligator boots. The clothes might have been civilized, but there was no mistaking the craggy, sharp-featured face for anything but a man who'd spent his life fighting the elements.

Her own father's hair was still thick and dark brown, though it was never seen, always hidden beneath a Stetson, as it was now. His wide-set eyes were a clear, bright blue, like the arctic sea. He used his cane like a king's scepter to give him majesty as he limped—long step, short step, long step, short step—toward his enemy.

Blackjack focused cold gray eyes on King Grayhawk and said, “You've got no business here. This doesn't concern you.”

“The hell I don't!” her father shot back. “You know as well as I do I have an interest in the charges against your boy. 'Specially in light of recent events.”

Libby saw the threat in King's words: that he would reveal the secret Clay had kept for so long—his relationship to Kate, and at a time when it was liable to do the most damage to Clay's career.

Libby had seen two massive bull elk face off and lock antlers with a clamor that echoed through the forest. The clash of wills between these two men was no less violent.

“I intend to have my son out of here by morning,” Blackjack said.

“He stays where he is,” King replied.

“He's innocent.”

“Guilty as sin,” King shot back. “Of more than just this girl's death.”

“What's that you're saying?” Hank interjected. “You've got evidence of more than just this girl's death? You think Blackhorne knows something about Kate's disappearance?”

“Stay out of this, Hank,” King said.

Hank eyed both men and backed off.

“I called Judge Wilkerson from Washington,” Blackjack said. “He's willing to have a bail hearing first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Bail hearing doesn't mean your son is getting out on bail,” King said. “Here in Jackson, we don't allow murderers to roam the streets.”

“My son is innocent.”

“Ain't till it's proven so,” King said.

“You've got that backward,” Blackjack countered. “A man is innocent until—

“We'll prove him guilty,” King said. “Don't you worry about that.”

Blackjack turned from King to the captain and said, “I want to speak with my son.”

“No,” King said.

Blackjack never took his eyes off the captain, and Libby watched with a sick feeling in her stomach as Hank shot a look at King and visibly wilted.

“Sorry, sir,” Hank said. “Can't let you do that. Only his attorney can speak with him before the bail hearing.”

Libby knew that rules like that were broken all the time. At the moment, it appeared Hank was more frightened of whatever repercussions her father might have promised than what this stranger might do to him.

Blackjack didn't argue. He simply turned on his booted heel and left the jail.

Hank spit the dark liquid residue of his chewing tobacco into a Styrofoam coffee cup he was carrying and said, “Whew! That is one angry motherf—”

“There are ladies present, Hank,” King said, glancing at Libby. “I'll see you tomorrow morning at the hearing. I trust no one will be visiting the prisoner before then.”

Hank gave a jerky nod. “No, sir. No one.”

“Except for me, Daddy,” Libby said. “Hank promised I could speak with his prisoner.”

King crossed to her and said, “I can't imagine what you have to say to that…man.”

“His name is Clay Blackthorne, Daddy. And what I have to say to him is none of your business.”

“That pack of coyotes should have stayed in Texas where they belong,” King said, glancing at the door Blackjack had exited.

Libby knew better than to argue with her father. “Good night, Daddy.”

King Grayhawk harrumphed a dismissal and limped away without another word.

Libby made sure her father was gone before she turned back to Hank. “I'm ready when you are,” she said.

“This is a dangerous prisoner,” Hank said. “I'm not sure—”

“Daddy isn't going to make any more fuss,” she assured the nervous captain. “And for Kate's sake, I'm willing to take the risk.”

Hank took her to an isolation cell where Clay was being held. Above her, on the second floor, she saw a deputy in a glass-walled box who had a view of the entire jail. Hank stopped in front of a door in which the only openings were a food port and a small window and punched in the combination to a Cypher lock on the wall.

When the cell door opened, she flinched at the sight of Clay wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit. She struggled not to wrinkle her nose at the smell in the spartan cell, with its stainless steel toilet attached to the wall. Then her gaze locked with Clay's.

Libby wasn't sure what she'd expected, maybe regret, maybe anxiety, even apprehension. What she saw was cold, hard anger. Defiance. Hostility. Scorn. And the arrogance of a man who had no intention of tolerating the treatment he was receiving, a man certain that it would be rectified immediately, if not sooner.

“Why am I still in here?” Clay asked.

“Bail hearing is scheduled at ten in the morning,” Hank replied.

“I think he'll talk more freely if I speak with him alone,” Libby said.

Hank shook his head. “I don't think—”

“If my father has no objection, I don't see why you should,” Libby said.

“Your father was here?” Clay asked, his body suddenly taut.

“Please, Hank,” Libby said. “I need a few minutes alone—”

“Three minutes,” Hank said abruptly. “Then you're out of here. This is supposed to be a goddamn isolation cell. 'Scuse the French.”

“Thank you, Hank.” She put a hand on the captain's chest, and he backed out of the cell and closed the door partway.

“I'll be right here, Blackthorne,” Hank said from the other side of the door. “Don't try anything.”

Libby followed Clay as he moved to the rear of the tiny cell to give them more privacy.

The first words out of his mouth were, “The girl who was murdered was with Kate yesterday.”

“What?” That fact had not been on the news. “How do you know?”

“She told me so.”

Libby felt a chill at her core. “You didn't hurt that girl to make her tell you—”

“I didn't lay a hand on her. She was afraid to talk to me in the crowd and led me to an upstairs bedroom. My drink was drugged, and when I woke up, I was in bed with her and she was dead.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing? Who hates you enough—”

“North,” Clay said. “Your brother North was there last night.”

Libby stared at him aghast. “Are you suggesting North—”

“He's killed before.”

“That death was ruled an
accident
!” Libby's breathing was harsh, and she felt her hackles rise in response to the threat against her brother. Slowly and succinctly she said, “It wasn't North.”

“What's his connection to Niles Taylor?” Clay asked.

Libby shoved a curl behind her ear in agitation. “They're members of the same oil consortium.”

“That's all? Nothing else?”

“How should I know?” she said angrily. “I don't keep track of everything North does. But if you're suggesting my brother is involved in anything illegal—”

“I don't know if that oil consortium is dirty or not,” Clay said. “If it is, North would certainly have a reason to want me in a compromising position, since my office is investigating it.”

“How would killing that girl help North?” Libby demanded.

“I don't think I was supposed to wake up before the girl's body had been removed,” Clay said.

Libby shook her head in confusion. “I don't understand.”

“Drew thinks someone took pictures of me with the dead girl, that her murder was part of a blackmail scheme to make me dance like a puppet on a string.”

“Drew was there, too?” Libby asked.

“Not at the party. I called him after I woke up and found myself in bed with a dead girl.”

Libby felt her heart squeeze. “You called him, but not me? You trust him, but not me?”

“It has nothing to do with trust,” Clay said brusquely. “Drew's an attorney. I needed legal advice.”

“You could have called me later,” Libby said.

“I didn't want to get you involved.”

Libby's mouth twisted cynically. “You mean you didn't want anyone making a connection between the two of us, especially with Kate missing. You wanted to protect your career.”

Clay opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. For the first time she saw something like remorse in his eyes.

“It crossed my mind,” he admitted. He shoved a hand through his black hair, leaving it askew as he paced the narrow width of the cell. “But that wasn't my only reason for wanting to keep you out of this.”

“What other reason is there?”

“I didn't want reporters squatting on your doorstep, getting in the way of finding Kate.”

“Have you told the police what you just told me—about the girl who was murdered being with Kate earlier in the day?” Libby said.

“Yes.”

“Then why aren't they out looking for our daughter?”

“They're trying to find the person who brought Natalie—Lourdes—to that party. Maybe he can lead them back to wherever Kate is being kept. They'll find him…unless he's already dead.”

“What do you mean?” Libby asked.

“The man Sarah Barndollar shot on Bear Island last night was there digging up the body of Sarah's husband Tom, who's been missing for the past fifteen months.”

“You think the man who was shot brought Lourdes to that party?” Libby said.

“He was on Bear Island in the dark, carrying a gun on the night of the murder,” Clay said. “So, yes, I think he could be one of the bad guys.”

Libby clasped her hands so tightly together the knuckles turned white, to keep from wringing them in despair. “What if it was him, Clay? What if the only person who could have led us to Kate is dead? How are we going to find our daughter before something like what happened to that poor girl happens to her?”

“Come here,” he said.

Libby stepped into his embrace and welcomed the feel of his arms closing around her in comfort. “I'm so scared, Clay.”

“I should be out of here later this morning,” he said. “We'll find out everything we can about the man who was killed. He had to know someone at that party. And we'll start looking at every isolated cabin around here—by air, by snowmobile, on skis. If this was an ongoing blackmail scheme, it won't work anymore because it's been exposed.”