He checked the bathroom. No Emily.
Since her car wasn’t out front, she might have decided to spend some time with her parents, but he didn’t like not knowing.
He noticed the note on the dresser then.
As he read the words, he swore. What the hell did she mean by meeting Baker alone?
He tossed the note back on the dresser and glanced at the clock. She’d left the time on the note. She’d been gone for more than an hour. She should have been back by now.
He was going over there.
Baker’s house was silent, but his truck was in the driveway.
Clint parked behind Baker’s vehicle and got out, his senses on alert to some danger he couldn’t name. If Emily had left already, where had she gone? He supposed she could have taken a different route back to the inn.
He banged on the front door. Stabbed the doorbell a couple of times. No answer. Not a sound.
Well, hell. If he was going to break into the guy’s house before dark, he’d better do it from the back. His lock-picking tools had been confiscated. Maybe he’d have to try kicking the door in. At the end of the house the garage door was open, so he checked there first. The garage was cluttered with junk, lawn-maintenance implements and piles of beer cans. Baker was evidently starting a collection.
At the door that led into the house from the garage, Clint tried the knob, and to his surprise the door was unlocked. Inside, the place was as dark as a tomb. Clint stayed still for half a minute and listened for any signs of life.
Nothing.
He flipped a switch in the kitchen and an overhead light flickered on. His apprehension mounting, Clint surveyed the room. Dirty dishes were piled up. Counters were cluttered. Baker’s wife must have been on strike.
Clint moved toward the living room, then turned on a light in the short hall. Every damned blind in the house was closed tight. Baker was stretched out in his recliner, apparently dead to the world. Clintwatched a few seconds to make sure he was breathing. He looked like shit. Both eyes black, nose swollen.
A .38 lay on the table by his chair. Using a dirty sock from the floor, Clint lifted the weapon and placed it on top of the entertainment cabinet, out of sight and reach. Then he grabbed Baker by the shirtfront and hoisted him out of the chair. His eyes tried to open but couldn’t seem to stay that way.
“Baker.” Clint shook him. “Wake up, you little bastard.”
Baker’s eyes started that blinking upward-roll thing.
“I said, wake up!” Clint shook him harder.
He tried unsuccessfully to struggle, mumbling nonsensical words.
Clint hauled him into the nearest bathroom and shoved him into the shower. He turned the cold water on full blast.
Baker screamed and cursed and tried to bolt.
Clint blocked his path out of the three-by-three tile cubicle. “Come alive, Baker; we need to talk.”
Baker’s eyes widened and fury blazed across his face. “I knew you’d come if I called her over here.”
“Where is she?” Clint slammed him against the wall and held him there. He ignored the cold water.
Confusion scrunched Baker’s face. “I ... She didn’t show.” The fury made a reappearance. “But you’re here ...”
Clint turned off the water and dragged Baker’s ass into the kitchen. He needed to speed up the process. He knew plenty of tricks. He’d learned them firsthand in Holman.
He plopped Baker into a chair at the kitchen table. Clint searched a couple of drawers until he found what he needed. Baker attempted to get up, but Clint slapped a hand on his head and shoved him back down. His level of intoxication made him easy to control.
Clint sat down next to him and manacled the other man’s right hand. He flatted it on the table, palm down, and held it in place with his left. “Now, tell me where she is.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.”
Using his free hand, Clint positioned the point of a knife’s long, slender blade against Baker’s hand at a strategic spot. “Tell me.”
