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CHAPTER 9 - THE KEY

"I'm glad I didn't finish you off back in town," Garrett proclaimed, his face flushed with emotion. "Those dolts couldn't even do the job right and hold you down. I warned them you were trouble. But this is better, much better. Now I can watch you squirm and die slowly under my own hands."

All the pieces fell into place as Johnny remembered the two men - the two friendly guys who had played poker with him - striking him with something heavy, then holding his arms tightly for some nefarious purpose. He'd struggled, oh my how he'd struggled, but before he'd been able to break away he'd been stabbed in the back. The pain had been so intense it had been clarifying. All sound had suddenly been turned off and the faces of the men, wide-eyed with shock as they released him, had been brought sharply into focus.

Even as he'd fallen, he'd twisted, and that was when he'd seen the dark figure hovering over him - a threatening silhouette bearing a knife dripping with blood. His own blood. The alleyway had veered at a crazy angle and he'd watched helplessly as one of the men had mounted Barranca. With one arm reaching out to stop them from stealing his horse, Johnny had passed out. Next thing he knew, he was back at Lancer with his family tending to him.

The whole time, Johnny had never suspected Harlan Garrett of being the man who had tried to murder him. It made sense, in a way, that Scott's grandfather harbored a twisted and misdirected jealous hatred towards him. He even blamed Johnny for preventing Scott from returning to Boston. In return, Johnny'd hated the man ever since he'd coerced Scott into leaving Lancer over a year ago.

Now, even with the panicky knowledge that he had only minutes to live, Johnny felt a stab of pity - not for the old man - but for what Scott would go through when he found out what his grandfather had done. Scott would have a difficult time living with the truth.

There was a sound outside the doorway, the doorknob rattled and then there was a knock. Garret had taken the precaution to lock the door as well as those to the patio as soon as he'd snuck into Johnny's room.

Johnny turned his head to call out to Teresa, but Garrett's gloved hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the weak plea for help. Biting down on the hand, Johnny got one arm free and swung wildly. He scored a hit against Garrett's chest.

Scott's grandfather grunted, staggered, and almost lost the upper hand, but as he regained his balance, he snatched one of the pillows from under Johnny's head. He clamped it over Johnny's face and became so involved in holding it down and avoiding the thrashing arms and legs that it was a couple of minutes before he realized the girl had stopped rattling the doorknob. Garrett knew he didn't have much time before Teresa found her way in, but the struggles of the young man were becoming more feeble as he slowly suffocated.

Johnny desperately tried to get some air, his lungs straining, his cries muffled. Severely hampered by his near-useless right hand and with his wounds screaming out with every movement, he reached out blindly in a last-ditch effort to survive. Finally, he found his attacker's face and gouged at his eyes.

But Garrett slipped out of his grasp and pressed the pillow down more firmly on Johnny's face. "Take this to your grave: Scottie will be so overcome with the death of his bastard half-brother that he will come home with me willingly, and you won't be around to see any of it," he said triumphantly.

Out on the patio, Teresa rattled at the French doors. "Johnny? Johnny! Why is this door locked?"

With waves of noise rushing in his ears, Johnny made a futile attempt to take some air into his lungs. His hands grasped at Garrett, at anything, but even when he managed to catch hold of the man's clothing, he had no strength left. His belly was on fire and his lungs were bursting. Gradually the pain receded and he was overcome by darkness. His arms fell back limply, his chest no longer worked to gain life-saving breaths, and Johnny succumbed to the darkness.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Teresa couldn't view the room due to the curtains drawn over the glass-paned patio doors, but she could hear some scuffling noises. Alarmed, she pushed her shoulder against one of the doors. "Johnny!" It hadn't been bolted at the top, so it gave a little. Encouraged, she leaned her weight against the door, just above the handle, and it sprung open with the sound of splintering wood. Before she had the chance to enter the room, or even determine what was going on with Johnny, Harlan Garrett stepped forward. He put an arm out blocking her way, preventing her from seeing past his body.

"Let me by! Johnny needs me–"

Calmly, Garrett stood his ground. "He's fine, young woman, and doesn't need any attention from you."

Teresa glared at the white-haired man standing in her way. He was looking down on her with a look of contempt, as he had several times before, but this time there was more at stake than her own pride. She was sure that Johnny was in need of attention, yet for some unknown reason Scott's grandfather didn't want her to enter the bedroom.

Trying to push past the older man proved difficult. Garrett's arm pressed against her, herding her back as he tried to close the broken patio door behind him.

"Let me alone!" she cried, digging her fingers into the arm that denied her entrance.

"Calm down, little miss," he reprimanded. "You've broken this door in your haste! Remove your hand from my arm immediately."

He raised his walking stick to keep her back, but Teresa was not to be deterred. "Why won't you let me in there? And why were the doors locked? What were you doing in Johnny's room, anyway?" she demanded.

"Don't you talk to your elders and betters in that tone, Missy." Garrett glanced over his shoulder then lowered his voice. "The young man needed some assistance with a personal matter. My actions are really none of your concern, but I locked the doors, as he wished, to give him privacy. He is sleeping now, and you wouldn't want to be the cause of any further debility of his condition, would you?"

Teresa paused, but only for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. "I know Johnny and he would never ask you for anything so personal, Mr. Garrett. You might not be of any concern to me, but the man in that room certainly is. So please remove yourself from my path!"

The girl tried to shoulder past, but Garrett cast his arms around her, bodily removing her from the doorway. As he roughly cast her away, he saw her eyes widen. Following her gaze, he found he had a large smear of fresh blood on his coat, and more on his white shirt cuff and hand. Grabbing hold of her around the waist and lifting her bodily, Garrett removed Teresa from the doorway, but he didn't get his hand over her mouth in time.

Teresa let out a blood-curdling scream.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"What the hell are you doing, Garrett?" Murdoch's voice boomed across the yard as he rushed to aid the still-struggling girl, with Jelly following right on his heels.

Garrett dropped Teresa so suddenly she stumbled and would have fallen if Jelly hadn't moved to grab her arms. Steadying the shaken young woman, Jelly exclaimed, "That polecat been mishandling you, Teresa? Cuz if he has I'd be right pleased to whup him outta his fancy britches and-"

"I'm fine, Jelly," she gasped. "Murdoch, we have to check on Johnny! I'm so afraid-" Teresa started to explain the urgency that had compelled her to break down the door to Johnny's sickroom, but Murdoch had already taken in the situation and was ordering Harlan Garrett to get out of his way.

Striding past Garrett when he didn't give way, Murdoch threw the patio doors wide open, along with their curtains, to allow more light into the dim room. Johnny was lying as still as death, his bandaged right arm dangling over the side of the bed. His tousled hair was inky black against his pale forehead. His face, discolored with bruises from the beating the night before, was slack with unconsciousness.

Murdoch stopped beside the bed, one hand hesitantly touching Johnny's cheek. He then felt his son's neck for his pulse and was relieved to find faint signs of life.

Teresa rushed in to the bedside, glaring at Garrett as she passed him. She stroked Johnny's hair away from his face and reached for a cloth to dab at his forehead. "He's so quiet. Is he going to be all right?" she asked Murdoch as she peered up at him anxiously.

"He seems steady, but he's not all right, not by a long sight. He's barely breathing," Murdoch replied, his anger barely suppressed. Two of the hands had appeared in the doorway, asking what they could do. "Pedro, go find the doctor." The other man, Frank, stepped just inside, poised to follow any orders Murdoch should give.

Teresa said in hushed voice, as she indicated Garrett's stained clothing, "There's blood on him. . ."

Murdoch took in smears of blood on the blanket and quickly peeled the coverings down to expose Johnny's bare torso with its heavily bandaged middle. The sheet under Johnny was soaked with a frightening amount of fresh blood. Murdoch grabbed a towel and Jelly hurried to assist him unbidden. They rolled the unconscious man over, made quick work of cutting through the linen binding, and pressed the towel to the wound. Teresa was kept busy supplying fresh, wet cloths, until the water in the basin had turned as crimson as Johnny's bedding.

"Some of the stitches have given way," Murdoch said tersely. They applied a thick, folded towel to the wound and tied it roughly in place with Jelly's assistance.

When Murdoch was satisfied that there was nothing more they could immediately do, he looked up at Harlan Garrett, who was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the scene. Murdoch said in a dangerously low voice, "Explain yourself, Mr. Garrett."

Frank stepped up and situated himself immediately behind Garrett, on guard.

Puffing out his chest, Garrett replied as if affronted. "I do not care to explain myself if you speak to me in that tone, Mr. Lancer." He moved to the hall door, but realized it was still locked. His hand reached out for the key that sat on the side table, but Murdoch commanded, "Stop right there!"

Taking a breath, Garrett turned back with some trepidation, the key clutched in his fist.

"I wasn't giving you a choice, Garrett," threatened Murdoch. "Explain what's been going on in here."

"The doors were all locked," accused Teresa, "when I returned from the kitchen." She pointed to the key clutched in Garrett's hand. "You locked me out while you were in here alone with Johnny!"

Placing a hand on Teresa's shoulder to keep her quiet, Murdoch stepped forward. His bulk was imposing in the small room.

Garrett glanced past Frank at the patio doors, calculating his chance of sidling out that way, but Jelly, with arms folded across his chest, now blocked the way as well. Clearing his throat, Garrett explained evenly, "As I told the young lady, before she had a fit of the vapors, I came in to assist the invalid. He appeared to suffer some kind of setback while I was attending him, and I was about to send for the doctor." He peered at Teresa from under his brows, pursed his lips and said sourly, "Perhaps if the girl had been paying closer attention to her patient-"

"I've never had a fit of the vapors in my life!" Teresa rebutted. "Johnny was fine when I left him and I was only away for a few minutes. I would never neglect him!"

"Teresa," Murdoch warned. Maria entered from the patio, deftly pulling her skirts back so they wouldn't touch Harlan Garrett in passing. She went directly to check on Johnny, speaking to Murdoch in Spanish. "Él no tiene una fiebre. Él gritó en alta voz."

"No," he responded. "He doesn't have a fever, gracias al Dios. You say you heard Johnny cry out?"

Maria nodded, looking concerned. "Si, I was in the kitchen, returning from my siesta, Señor Lancer. It was a sound very terrible."

"Garrett. You're saying that Johnny was alert when you entered, at his invitation, and then he–?"

"Yes, he became faint, yes, that's what occurred. I never heard any such cry, if that's what the servant says. She must have been dreaming. Now, perhaps we should all leave the young man to sleep it off. I'm not feeling well myself and need to rest." Garrett mopped his brow then unlocked the door to the hall and exited the room, his cane in hand.

Frank asked, "Mr. Lancer? You want me to. . .?"

Murdoch stared after Garrett. He'd seen a mark near Garrett's eye that looked like a gouge from a fingernail. "Don't let him out of your sight, Frank."

For a minute the only sound was that of the two men's receding footsteps, accompanied by the tap of Garrett's cane. Then Jelly came forward and said, "I don't trust that shyster, Mr. Lancer, not one bit. I'd lay a wager he weren't telling the truth."

"Yes, I know. Thank you, Jelly." Despite a deep anger broiling beneath the surface, Murdoch calmly leaned over his son and gently pulled the blanket up to his bare shoulder. "We need to get Dr. Mendez back here immediately."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Scott spotted the doctor's buggy hitched at the front of the hacienda, fear hit him like a blow. He hurried through the house, past Maria and one of the kitchen girls carrying a load of red-stained sheets away to the laundry, and on to Johnny's sickroom.

Pushing the paneled door open slowly, the tableau that played out before his eyes was as descriptive as he needed. Dr. Mendez, pulling his stethoscope out of his ears, dejectedly shaking his head. The Old Man's shoulders stooping with the burden of devastating news, his hand going to his mouth, his eyes closing in grief. Teresa, sobbing in the comforting arms of Jelly, whose own face was wet with tears that fell unheeded, marking his shirt with large, damp patches.

Rushing into the room, Scott sank to his knees by the bedside. Johnny was unconscious, that much was clear, the only sign of life being his chest rising slightly with each breath. Grasping his brother's hand, Scott searched his face for a sign of hope. There had been none in the faces of those attending the bedside, but he wasn't going to accept their unspoken acceptance of Johnny's near demise. "What happened here?" Scott looked up at the doctor. "He was doing all right this morning when I left. . . wasn't he?"

He felt rather than saw Murdoch usher the others out of the room. Dr. Mendez closed the door behind them, then said to Scott, "Your brother suffered some. . .trauma this afternoon, I'm afraid." He glanced at Murdoch for permission to go on. "There are signs of asphyxia." When Scott looked blankly at him, the doctor continued, "He's had a deficient supply of oxygen–"

"I know what asphyxia is, Doctor," Scott replied harshly as he stood. Searching the faces of the two austere men, he asked, "How can this be? Did he turn over, onto his stomach, maybe? Was he left alone? Did something else happen?"

Murdoch put a hand on Scott's shoulder, stopping the flow of questions. "Scott, son, Johnny was suffocated. On purpose."

"There were a couple of small feathers in his mouth, but I don't believe any were inhaled into his lungs." Mendez added, "No doubt from his pillow."

"Who? But who. . .?" Scott took a step back, meeting the eyes of his father. Murdoch's lips were compressed with anger, as if he was physically holding back his words. Scott looked from the doctor to Johnny's insensible form, trying to make sense of what was being said, that someone had actually held a pillow over Johnny's face and deliberately tried to murder him. Viewing the somber expressions of the men by the bedside, he understood that they carried little or no hope for Johnny's recovery. He asked anyway, "Will he pull through? Will he regain his senses?"

"It is possible, of course," said Mendez, even as he shook his head negatively. "But it is not so very likely, I am very sorry to say."

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