Lancer 13: Family Reunion
When Mark Powers was a child, a friend had found a fox cub trapped by a fallen branch. The boy had taken home the fox cub and lavished attention on it, but it pined for freedom. It didn't sleep, wouldn't eat and eventually died.
Until that morning, Johnny had reminded him of that fox cub. Unable to sleep, with no appetite for food, Johnny had presented a woebegone aspect that had worried the chief constable.
But now, the tension was gone from Johnny's face. Though his eyes still showed dark circles, stark against too-pale skin, the younger Lancer was shoveling down eggs as fast as he could swallow.
"You look pleased this morning," Powers said.
"Why not?" Johnny replied. "MacGregor says Scott is going to be all right, and I'm getting out of here today — no offense to your hospitality.
Powers snapped a tiny bow.
"None taken, sir," he replied. "You seem pretty confident. What makes you think you're leaving my establishment. Not that I wouldn't be glad to see you go — no offense."
"None taken," Johnny said, with a nod of his head.
Before he could actually answer the chief constable's question, a bellow sounded from the outer office.
"Constable!"
If Powers hadn't been looking at his prisoner, he wouldn't have believed the change. Johnny's small, tired smile burst into a sunny grin and those eyes, which looked so dangerous whenever Johnny thought about the person who shot Scott, took on an eager, yet embarrassed, expression.
"Now you're in for it," the former gunfighter said softly, with anticipation.
"Why?" Powers asked in amusement.
"'Cause that's my old man out there," Johnny said proudly.
When Powers stepped out of the cellblock, he learned why Johnny had been confident of getting out of jail as soon as his father arrived. Murdoch Lancer was an efficient man.
The lawyer, Wingate, had a writ of habeas corpus signed by Judge Abbott, ordering that Johnny either be released or brought before the judge for arraignment. Powers read the papers carefully.
"We demand that you release John Lancer immediately," Wingate said sternly.
"Gentlemen, it will be my pleasure," powers said sincerely, which wasn't the reaction the others expected.
Powers took the keys and ushered the pair into the cellblock. Johnny was lounging against the bars as they approached.
"Murdoch," was all he said, but the look father and son exchanged said everything they needed.
Johnny's sorry shape told Murdoch more about Scott's condition than any telegram could have, but Johnny's casual greeting eased that stab of fear.
Wingate took one look at Johnny and rounded on Powers, demanding to know whether it was his habit to abuse prisoners.
Powers' temper flared. Johnny moved to defend his captors. Wes stepped blithely through the door.
"You can let Johnny out now," he said. Seeing the tableau in the cellblock, he added, "Oh, you're already out. Fast work, Mark."
"What are you babbling about," Powers growled. "Mr. Lancer brought a writ, so of course I let Johnny out."
"Mr. Lancer! I'm pleased to meet you, sir!" Wes said happily, grabbing Murdoch's hand. To Powers he said, "You don't have to worry about the writ. I've got something better."
"And that is …?" the lawyer asked tartly.
"That is eyewitness testimony clearing Johnny," Wes said, trying to control the effervescence that bubbled up whenever he remembered Scott was going to be all right.
"What eyewitness?" Wingate asked curiously.
"Why the victim, of course," Wes answered.
"You mean Scott …" Johnny started eagerly.
"He was awake and lucid," Wes said, answering the question before it was asked. "He's easily tired, of course, but he sounded his usual self."
Johnny whooped and pounded Murdoch's shoulder.
"Come on, Murdoch, we've got to go see him," he said.
"There's one thing, though." Wes interrupted their departure, fully serious for the first time. "I think someone tried to kill him again while I was there."
He explained what had happened and added that he had posted a guard outside Scott's room. Now that Scott was recovering, MacGregor wouldn't allow a guard inside the room where he might disturb the patient.
"Scott may be recovering, but it seems someone wants to prevent that," Powers said. He took charge, herding the others into his office. "I believe you have some evidence for us, Mr. Lancer. I know you want to see your son, but the sooner we get to work on this, the better. It's obvious this case isn't over."
Though he was brimming with curiosity, the young lawyer politely accepted Murdoch's thanks and left for other appointments.
Johnny, Wes and Powers took turns reading the letter, as they filled Murdoch in on the investigation. Finally they set the letter on Powers' desk. They crouched around it to pick it apart, like lions around their kill.
"Michaelson thought these people were talking about killing Harlan, because he had fallen ill," Powers surmised.
"And Michaelson died before he could talk to Scott," Wes said.
"A 'convenient' accident," Johnny commented. His chin resting on his folded hands, he studied the letter at eye level as if that would give him a new perspective.
"But it was Scott they tried to shoot, and to smother," Wes protested.
"Could we have two murder conspiracies?" Powers speculated.
"I've had my differences with the Garrett family, constable," Murdoch said mildly. "But I find it hard to believe there would be that many killers among Scott's relatives."
"OK, then maybe Michaelson misunderstood what he heard. Maybe his death was an accident. They do happen," Powers said, but not as if he believed it. "But the trouble with that is the mysterious way Michaelson died. No one knew why he was in town. No one even knew he was gone until we reported his death. Everyone agrees it wasn't like him to sneak away."
"So he probably sneaked out to report what he heard to you guys," Johnny said reasonably. "He said in the letter he couldn't trust anyone in the house."
Wes sighed. "That makes his death a pretty tough coincidence to swallow."
"And don't forget, someone intercepted my telegram to Scott," Murdoch added. "Someone didn't want Scott to hear about Michaelson's letter."
"So there was no coincidence. Michaelson was killed because of what he knew. And what he thought he knew was that someone was trying to kill Harlan Garrett," Powers summed up.
"But Harlan Garrett's alive and getting better," Wes said.
"… And Scott's the one who got shot," Johnny finished for him.
The four men looked at each other.
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm more confused than ever," the chief constable admitted.
"It just doesn't make sense," Wes complained.
"It makes sense to someone," Murdoch corrected.
"I guess we have to start over. Question everyone all over again in light of this new evidence," Powers sighed.
The prospect looked bleak.
"Maybe not," Murdoch said. "There's one person you haven't talked to."
Their minds on suspects, the constables looked blank for a moment, but Johnny followed his father easily. His thoughts kept drifting in that direction anyway.
"You think Scott knows something, Murdoch?" he asked.
"It seems to me that the victim is always the key to a murder attempt, Johnny. Your brother's no fool. Better than anyone, he ought to know who would have a motive to kill him."
"Then let's go ask him," Johnny declared. He bounded from his seat, then stopped. "I want my gun back, Wes," he said.
"You can't have it. It's evidence," Powers said immediately.
"Then how about Scott's gun. I know you confiscated it and brought it here."
"You don't need a gun, Johnny," Wes said.
"That's what you said before," Johnny said flatly, with what Murdoch identified as his Johnny Madrid stare. "Someone out there is gunning for my brother and I'm not leaving here without that gun."
"You could deputize us, constable," Murdoch suggested, before his youngest son could get himself thrown back into jail. The elder Lancer hadn't removed his gun belt and made it clear he wasn't about to.
Powers saw that he'd have to lock them up to get their guns, and he was tired of Lancers cluttering up his jail.
"Get it," he told Wes. "You two, repeat after me …"
"I absolutely forbid it," Dr. MacGregor stated flatly. "You will not question him today. It would be too strenuous. Perhaps, perhaps, I will permit you to talk to him tomorrow, if he's up to it. Mr. Lancer, you don't realize just how near Scott was to death. A few years ago, without the modern equipment we have today …"
Johnny slipped out of the room unnoticed, leaving Murdoch and the constables to MacGregor's lecture.
The Westerner didn't want to question Scott. He just wanted to see him, to wipe away the image of Scott on the operating table, to wipe away the feel of his brother's blood on his hands.
The constable at the door recognized Johnny — he'd hauled the Californian around often enough. The man raised his eyebrows at the badge Johnny showed. However, since he knew Johnny wasn't the one who tried to smother Scott, because he himself had bundled Johnny into the cell at the Constabulary Office, the constable let the younger Lancer into the room.
Johnny tiptoed in, careful not to wake his brother. Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked down on the still form of the Easterner who had earned his respect and his affection so surprisingly three years before.
The Boston-bred Lancer lay still, pale and bound in bandages, not so different from the last time Johnny had seen him. But to the younger brother, there was a world of difference in the color in Scott's face and the serenity of his expression.
Seeing Scott so, set alight a war of emotions in Johnny. The old conflict — Johnny Madrid vs. Johnny Lancer — reared its head again. The Lancer part felt a peaceful sort of joy that Scott was alive and going to be well again. It relaxed all the fears that, for the past week, had kept him prisoner more surely than the constable's jail cell.
Johnny's Madrid half wasn't buying any of this snake oil. The person who'd bushwhacked his brother was still roaming free, eager to try again. There'd be time for peace after the killer was brought to justice — one way or another. Johnny fingered the butt of Scott's gun and settled its weight on his thigh.
With practiced techniques, Johnny cooled the fiery Madrid temper until there was just a faint ember left. The ember glowed with red-hot hatred for the person who'd shot Scott, but it was buried deep, out of the way. Hot anger could blind a man, and a blind gunfighter was as good as dead. A professional gunfighter kept anger far away, using it only as a spur to sudden action. Johnny Madrid was always professional.
His expression unflinching and implacable, Johnny pulled a chair up to the bedside. It scraped faintly on the floor.
Scott stirred, then winced at the pain the movement caused him. He gasped, and the sudden breathe hurt as much as the movement.
"Whoa, Scott. Easy."
All trace of the loner Johnny Madrid vanished in an instant. Johnny Lancer extended a restraining hand to keep his brother from hurting himself.
"Lie still, Scott. Don't thrash around so much."
The patient obeyed instructions without opening his eyes.
"J … Johnny?" It was a breath of sound.
"Sure, who else?"
Scott forced his eyes open and saw Johnny's shy, sweet smile. The injured man drank in the sight, in a long draught, then a return grin grew on Scott's pale face.
"You sound like you're quieting a horse caught in barbed wire," he said in a weak but game voice.
"Sorry."
"S'all right," Scott moved a fraction and winced again. "I feel like a colt caught in barbed wire. Every way I move it hurts." Scott looked directly into Johnny's ice blue eyes. "You had me scared, brother," he said seriously.
"It was your turn," Johnny replied. It was almost a joke. He tried again. "Thanks for clearing me."
"De nada."
Scott raised his hand. Johnny enfolded it with both of his, then rested his chin on the triple fist for good measure. He grinned comically at Scott, who laughed at the lazy picture his brother presented.
For a while they were content with a companionable silence. Scott's eyes closed because it was too much work to keep them open, but Johnny knew he wasn't asleep.
"Murdoch's here," Johnny finally thought to say.
Scott's brow furrowed. "So soon? Or has it been longer than I thought?"
Johnny shook his head. "No, he was already on his way when you were shot."
Scott's eyes asked an encyclopedia of questions, but Johnny waved them away.
"Not today, brother. Doctor's orders. We'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Promise."
Scott nodded, curiosity overwhelmed by a rising tide of pain. His last does of laudanum was wearing off fast. He swallowed convulsively.
"Scott?" Johnny was concerned.
Scott squeezed his hand, but his grip was so weak, it wasn't much reassurance. Johnny gently placed Scott's hand on the blankets and went to get the painkiller. A veteran of gunshot wounds, he recognized the kind of pain Scott was fighting. He knew what to do about it: a little laudanum for the pain and a distraction for the mind. He started to tell about Murdoch rescuing him from the jail.
When Murdoch came hunting his youngest son, he found Johnny fast asleep, his head pillowed on his arms on the side on Scott's bed.
Scott was awake, though, smiling the most contented smile Murdoch had ever seen on the victim of a murder attempt.
Scott was floating on a bubble of painkiller and happiness. Why not? With the pain reduced to a dull ache, he had been reflecting on life and finding renewed existence good. He was alive. His grandfather was alive. Johnny was alive and out of jail. Murdoch was here and on the warpath. Everything was as it should be.
Murdoch crossed to the bed and took the hand Scott extended.
"Scott." His voice choked off. He bent his head, cleared his throat and continued. "How do you feel, son?"
"I've never been worse," Scott admitted, with a disarming smile. "Looks like I'll survive, though."
"Of course you will." Murdoch squeezed Scott's hand gently, then grinned wryly. "But Johnny and I might not, if Dr. MacGregor catches us in here. He said you need to rest."
Scott assessed Johnny's ragged appearance and Murdoch's travel weary visage, and said, "You'll forgive me for saying so, sir, but the two of you look as if you need it more than I do."
Without raising his head from his arms, Johnny, who had awakened at Murdoch's entrance, said, "He has a point Murdoch. Let's go back to the house and get some sleep."
The tender expression on Murdoch's face curdled, though he fought it.
"I wouldn't want to put anyone out. I'll just take a room at a hotel," he said casually, but he couldn't hide his distaste from Scott. The elder son made no comment on the evasion.
Tact was never Johnny's long suit. He sat up and looked at Murdoch in bewilderment.
"Put anyone out? Murdoch, there must be twenty bedrooms in that house!"
"Let it alone, Johnny," Scott warned, but he turned away from Murdoch, so his father wouldn't see the disappointment in his eyes.
Johnny subsided, finally remembering that Murdoch and Harlan had fought an emotional war for thirty years, since before Scott was born. Johnny realized Murdoch hadn't been a party to the truce he and Harlan had declared.
Seeing Scott turn away, changed the shape of the battlefield for Murdoch. He couldn't bear to add to his son's burden of pain. He gently touched Scott's shoulder, until his son turned back.
"It would make you happier if Harlan and I could get along, wouldn't it?"
"Yes sir," Scott admitted. "But I don't have any right …"
"No, you have every right," Murdoch interrupted. "It's your life we've played tug-o-war with for twenty-five years. You have every right …"
He couldn't continue. He and Harlan had come to an understanding at their last meeting, but thirty years of hatred and pain died harder than Murdoch had expected. He was ashamed he couldn't put aside the past for the sake of his son.
"Murdoch, you don't have to …" Scott started.
"I do have to. I have to try, anyway," Murdoch contradicted. He paused, then gave Scott a faint smile. "But I have to confess, I like Harlan better when there's three thousand miles between us."
Murdoch told Scott to get some sleep, because they planned a busy day for tomorrow, then he left the room. Johnny lingered in the doorway.
"Scott, something's been biting at me."
Scott looked at him questioningly.
"Who's Chester Lee?" the younger brother blurted out.
Scott laughed, which hurt. He tried to suppress the laugh, which hurt more. He gasped for breath, then Johnny was at his side, helping him sip from a glass of water.
"Stepped in it again, didn't I?" Johnny said ruefully, as Scott caught his breath.
Scott punched his brother's side in denial.
"Chester Lee was a figment of my childish imagination," Scott said. "He was my playmate, my best friend …"
"Your brother?" Johnny asked, the light dawning.
Scott nodded. "For all your faults, Johnny, you're a little better than an imaginary friend."
Johnny carefully whacked his brother's knee with his hat, then followed Murdoch out the door. Both brothers chuckled for a long while.
The Lancers left their hired buggy at the Garrett stable. Random promised to have Jeff return it to the livery stable.
"Thank you, Mr. Random," Murdoch said wearily. The strain of the long trip and the worry was beginning to tell on him.
Random and Johnny exchanged a look behind Murdoch's back. Random's leathery face creased in an "I told you so" smile. Johnny winked and chased after his father.
He guided Murdoch through the half-repaired, trampled garden and into the back door as if he'd lived in the big Boston house all his life. Murdoch held out his hand to stop the informal entrance, but when Johnny didn't stop, Murdoch had no choice but to follow.
As his father stood by uncomfortably, Johnny received a floury hug from Mrs. Hodges and a hero's welcome from the rest of the Garrett staff, who had a thousand questions to ask.
Laughing, Johnny shouted them down, told them what had happened, gave a progress report on Scott and introduced his father, all in one breath.
Belatedly recognizing Murdoch's presence, the staff formed up and greeted him with proper formality.
"Mr. Garrett will be glad to see you, Mr. Lancer," Hodges said with every evidence of sincerity.
Murdoch was surprised. Hodges had once been ordered to never let Murdoch set foot in the house again.
"We'd better go see him," Johnny told Hodges.
Murdoch rubbed his eyes and wondered what score Johnny was trying to settle. He could have sworn his youngest son liked him. Why was Johnny so anxious to bring Murdoch before his enemy.