Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(11)

“Damn it, Miss Vaughn, I admit I’m withholding information from you, but it’s for your own good.”

“Oddly enough, I cannot remember a single instance when someone did me a favor by withholding information. And just so you know, the I’m doing it for your own good line is the absolute worst reason in the world to do it.”

“Okay, calm down—”

“Good night, Mr. Jones. If you hang around here any longer, I’m going to have to charge you for a one-night stay.”





Chapter 5


Pickwell was dead, but he’d had his revenge from beyond the grave. The bastard had conned them all.

Charlie Hubbard stared at the heavy typewriter that he had found inside the suitcase. He had not known what to expect when he pried the grip open—only that whatever was inside weighed several pounds.

The last thing he had expected was a typewriter—a nonfunctioning one at that.

He was outraged. He was also terrified.

He’d waited his entire life for a break. Nothing had ever gone his way. A string of dead-end jobs had kept him from being forced to ride the rails during the worst years of the financial disaster that had swept over the nation, but only just. A year ago, he’d started working for crazy Norman Pickwell. At first he’d figured he’d finally gotten lucky. It was a steady job and mostly indoor work. Then he’d discovered why Pickwell’s last mechanic had departed.

The inventor had been wildly paranoid and given to violent outbursts. On several occasions Charlie had been forced to dive under a workbench to avoid getting struck by a large tool or a chunk of metal that Pickwell had hurled at him.

A week ago it seemed his luck had finally changed. Someone had dangled an irresistible lure. He had been offered more cash than he had ever expected to see in his lifetime. And all he had to do was steal one of Pickwell’s suitcases on the night of the robot demonstration.

He had risked everything for a fake typewriter. He was confronting disaster and he knew exactly who to blame—the person who had promised him money beyond his wildest dreams.

The plan had seemed so simple back at the start. His job was to make it possible for someone to enter the theater via the back door, help the person get into the robot costume, make sure the suitcases got switched, and drive the stolen grip to the deserted auto court. He had been told that someone would arrive to collect the suitcase. At that point he would be paid. He would be free to take the money and run.

He hadn’t known that Pickwell was going to be gunned down onstage until he heard the shots. By then it was too late.

In his glittering fantasies he’d believed it would all be so easy. Sure, there would be some risk, but it would be worth it. No one will ever know, he’d told himself. You’ll be the real invisible man.

He had seen The Invisible Man when it was first released a few years back. It had starred Claude Rains as Dr. Jack Griffin and it had been nothing short of thrilling. Charlie had been excited by the idea of invisibility. But there was no getting around the fact that the character played by Rains had gone nuts, killed a bunch of people, and come to a bad end.

Sometimes the movies got it right.

Charlie used the back of his hand to dash sweat off his forehead. He wondered if, like Griffin, he was about to come to a bad end. He had taken so many chances tonight, and all for a broken typewriter. He wanted to hurl it through the window.

He banged the space bar again and again and then he tried every key. Again. And again. Nothing moved. The carriage return appeared to be welded or screwed in place. He couldn’t even insert a sheet of paper into the damned machine. It was frozen.

He had assumed that the contents of the suitcase were worth a fortune. He had also figured out that whatever was inside was dangerous. Given the way Pickwell had guarded it at all times, Charlie had expected to find a few bars of gold inside or maybe a bag of valuable gems. But what he was looking at appeared to be an ordinary typing machine.

It might as well have been a lead brick.

Pickwell had deceived all of them.

Charlie sank down on the edge of the old cot and dropped his head into his hands. No matter how he looked at it, he was now involved in Pickwell’s murder.

Sure, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but if his role in the business was ever discovered, he would probably be executed. He’d heard that California was no longer hanging convicted killers. Instead, the state was installing something called a gas chamber in San Quentin prison. He didn’t know which method would be less awful.

He should have paid attention to his gut. He’d had misgivings about the job from the start but he had let himself be convinced that the promised payoff was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He needed a plan, because the person who had promised him a fortune wasn’t going to cough up a lot of cash for a broken typewriter.

He shot to his feet and began to pace the small cabin. He had a car and he had the gun he had purchased at the start of this business, just in case things went badly. He also had some cash—not a lot, just a few bucks, but he knew how to make it last for a while. One thing you could say about Pickwell, he had come through with a weekly salary. Regular as clockwork.

Charlie considered his options and came to the conclusion that so many others had arrived at when they found themselves on the wrong side of the law. The answer was Mexico. They said that a man with a little money could live like a king south of the border. But first he had to get rid of everything that linked him to the murder.