“Frank doesn’t know what he wants,” Rourke shouted. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Dion breathed hard. His options were running low, and a last-ditch plan had sprung to mind, and it was a shitty one. Worse, it was comical. But it was all he had, his last grenade. He raised his voice once more, trying for an emphasis he was not trained for. “Don’t be an idiot, Scottie. You want to protect him? Well, guess what. I care too, and a lot more than you do.”
If nothing else, Rourke would lose his train of thought, and that would buy some time. Rourke’s response was angry but puzzled. “Hey? What d’you mean?”
“I mean I don’t want him going to jail, and I have my reasons that are none of your business. And I’m going to keep him out of jail if it kills me, and you’re going to help me by taking the rap. Right? I also have the means, and all you gotta do is hear me out.”
He had Rourke’s interest. The man’s face lifted, tuned in, leery but wanting to hear more. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about here, Dion. Explain yourself, and make it fast.”
Frank made a gagging noise, his boots scrabbling against the rocks and grit and grasses on the lip of a chasm. Dion could hear pebbles cascading, falling away into the abyss. He called out, “I’m not saying anything till you swear you’ll take the rap for him. Would you do that? You love him enough to trade your soul for his?”
“’Course I would. Any day.”
This was better than Dion expected. No bullets this time, but an actual dialogue. “Great, then I can make him get away with it. I can plant evidence. He’ll get six months for being accessory after the fact, probably on probation. He can do that easy. But you’ll go down for the murder itself. I’ll see to it.”
Rourke soaked up the information and then was bellowing again. “Why? Why would you do that? I don’t get you. You’re playing with my head here.”
“I said I have my reasons,” Dion bellowed back. “Take it or leave it.”
Rourke seemed to lose patience and yanked Frank again, pulling him against him like a rag doll, cocking the gun against his skull, and again Frank cried out. Dion cried out too, the last resort, the punchline that would make him the laughingstock of the police community for years down the road. “I love him more than you ever will,” he yelped. And cleared his throat and gave another hoarse shout. “You stupid bastard, that’s why.”
There. Ha ha ha, he had the asshole’s undivided attention now. The muzzle lowered, and Rourke was staring his way. Dion spoke more calmly now, like a man who’d gotten a load off his chest, like there was nothing left but gentle persuasion. “I saw it in your eyes, Frank. You felt it too, didn’t you? That night at the bar.”
There was no night in the bar, no love at first sight. In fact, he hadn’t seen the guitar man up close and in person until this very night. Frank made a noise, more a rodeo calf in distress than a man in love, but Rourke was diverted, still trying to get a handle on what he was hearing. “You? You have a thing for Frankie?”
“It’s more than a thing,” Dion said bitterly. “He’s what gets me through my day. And I don’t care if you don’t feel the same for me, Frank. It doesn’t change what I’m trying to do here. I’m going to get you off the hook, promise.” He searched his mind for a handy catchphrase, something gay-sounding, but drew a blank. He watched Frank struggle.
Rourke let loose a laugh. “Holy Jesus, and I thought you were into girls.”
“You can’t help what you’re into. Let him go, and we’ll talk it out, okay? We’re all freezing to death, and we better get our story straight before we go back down that mountain.”
“I can tell you one thing, Frankie’s straight as an arrow,” Rourke said. “Right, Frank?”
Frank snorted and kicked and tried to twist out of the older man’s grip, but he was losing steam, starting to sag.
Dion was starting to sag too. Ridiculously, he still held gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, neither aimed anywhere meaningful. He looked at his own boots, inhaling the mountain air, trying to stay on track. It was the stress, the humiliation, the wound in his side. The grass and mucky snow beneath had a rotten earthy smell, and now that they’d all done shouting, there was quiet, and beyond that a muted conversation, millions of branches sawing together whenever the wind gathered force. And there was something else, too. Mountains were great auditoriums in the dead of night, and sound carried. He heard a distant grumble and knew what it was. Engines. Three or four gutsy V8s working upward at speed.
The timing was incredibly bad, too late and too soon. He raised his voice, which was worse than hoarse by now, breaking up like bad reception. “If you don’t let him go, he’s going to the pen, and he’s going to end up with a scar like yours, but worse. Let him go. Let me save him. Only I can save him. I have an ironclad story for you to tell the cops, and long as you get it straight, this is going to work. But we have to get on it now.”
The now was delivered in pure exhaustion and tired rage, designed to startle Rourke into action. Instead, Rourke become a dark, baffled silhouette, frozen in indecision. Maybe he was having second thoughts about how much he loved Frank Law, if he was worth going to prison for. Maybe he just wasn’t buying the lie, or maybe he was going back to the simpler Plan A, shoot the loved one to save him from grief.
Dion held out his arms. “Send him over here. You can do the time a lot better than he can. Nobody’s going to mess with you, that’s for sure.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Rourke said. “It’s a trick, and a pretty sleazy one too.”
One minute, two minutes, and they’d be coming down the ravine, and in a panic Rourke’s trigger finger would twitch, and blood would spray all over the hubcapped gates of heaven. Frank’s blood. Frankly, Dion wasn’t sure he cared any longer, or if so, why. Who was he trying to impress, now that he had nobody to impress? Not the RCMP, not Looch in his grave, not Nadia from rehab, and not the old Indian Willy who thought they shared some kind of kinship but was dead wrong. He had nobody to impress, and what did it matter if Frank got a bullet in his head? In the spirit of resignation he told Rourke, “I’m coming forward so we can talk without yelling. Don’t you fucking shoot me.”
“I won’t shoot you,” Rourke said. “Just keep your hands up.”
Gun holstered, flashlight slung in its loop, Dion linked chilled hands behind his head and stepped forward, coming close enough that Rourke’s face became more than puddles of shadow. “I’m giving you my word, Scottie. All I want is for him to be free.”
Rourke studied him with wonder, and with revulsion, and then something else creased his brow, some kind of understanding. “I feel for you, man,” he said. “Being like that. Must be horrible.”
“It is horrible.” Dion reached out and touched Frank Law on the arm, claiming possession. Rourke released his chokehold, and Frank crashed to his knees. Dion helped him up and pulled him away from the madman, behind him to safety, and now that the danger was more or less passed, it crossed his mind almost irresistibly to whip out his own gun and put one through Rourke’s face, if nothing else just to get back at him for all this crap he’d put him through tonight. Flying backward, Rourke would sail over the cliff. Soar free like the eagle he always wanted to be. And that would be that.
He said instead, “First off, you’re going to have to break your alibi for the day Kiera died.”
“I can do that,” Rourke said.
“And I’m going to need your DNA.”
“You’re