Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I got up and brushed off my pants and started down the hill.

  THIRTY-ONE

  His back was to me and the light was dim, but I recognized him easily. Roland Nelson. Michael Whitson. Fused, after twenty years.

  He was standing on the far side of the room, striking one match after another, trying to light a small lantern that was resting on a table next to a Franklin stove. He was wearing a red plaid hunting shirt and hiking boots. A rolled sleeping bag lay on the floor next to his feet. A bag of groceries sat beside the lantern, a loaf of brown bread sticking out the top. Even in these surroundings, Nelson managed to appear larger and more perfect than life.

  I was peering in through a small window at the side of the cabin, my view hampered by a thin curtain of sackcloth that undulated in the night wind. I watched as Nelson struck another match and touched it to the mantle at the top of the lantern. A flame spurted brightly, then melted into a white ball of light as Nelson adjusted a knob at the base of the lantern. Then he went over and sat on a long, horsehair couch in front of the fireplace.

  The cabin was rough and simple: a few cane-bottomed chairs, a couch, a long table made from weathered siding, a wood box, a stove, and an ice box. Nothing extra, nothing missing. Except for Claire. I couldn’t see any sign of her, but there was another room at the back of the cabin so I ducked down and made my way around to the deck.

  I crept onto the deck, hoping the creaks and groans I was making would blend with the forest sounds, and went to the window and looked in. Claire was there, wearing white satin pajamas with gold giraffes all over them, sitting in her wheelchair in the narrow bedroom, surrounded on two sides by bunk beds and on the third by a pine dresser and a washstand. Her back was to me; she was trying to read a book by the light of the moon.

  She looked like a child there in the silvery light, fresh and bright and ready to run out and skip rope and belly flop in the lake. Except Claire would never run anywhere.

  I went around to the other side of the cabin to a window that should have given me a view of Nelson’s face if he was still sitting on the couch. He was, and it did. His chin was slumped forward on his chest and his eyes were closed. The light from the lantern cast otherworldly shadows on the walls, shadows of doom and denouement. On the couch beside him was a very worldly forty-five that looked big enough to blow me back to San Francisco.

  I ducked down and sat with my back against the cabin wall. The moon was a tennis ball over a net of pines and the air was as clean and piercing as a knife blade. I couldn’t get Claire out of my mind. She aroused a paternal instinct I had never experienced before, and it made me nervous. It also made me sad, because what I was about to do might cripple Claire even further.

  But regardless of my sympathy for Claire, I couldn’t afford to mess around with Nelson. I admired him, or at least a part of him, and maybe I understood and felt sorry for him, but I still had to take him, quick and fast, with no mistakes. And I had to do it now, before he got settled in and began to think about defending himself.

  My gun scraped dryly against the holster as I pulled it out and cradled it in my palm. It felt hot, like burning sand.

  I looked in the window again. Nelson stirred, shaking himself awake, and stood up. “I’m going out to get some firewood, honey,” he called, looking toward the bedroom door. Claire said something in reply but I couldn’t make it out. I listened for her chair to start up but didn’t hear it. Then Nelson walked toward the door that led out to the deck and when he went outside I scrambled around to the front of the cabin.

  I was through the front door and crouched down behind the couch with Nelson’s gun in my pocket and mine in my hand by the time Nelson came back inside. His arms were filled with firewood, cradling the logs the way young girls carry their school books, and he didn’t have a chance.

  I stood up. “Michael Whitson, I presume,” I said brightly. My gun was pointed at his navel.

  I’m not sure he knew who I was; he probably thought I was a cop. Before he could sort out the images that were racing down his optic nerve he dropped the firewood and turned to run. I had to make a threat to get him stopped and turned around. When he faced me again the surprise had left his eyes; they were narrow slits of cunning.

  A reluctant smile spread above his beard. “How long have you known?” he asked.

  “Not long. Not until I saw this place and remembered the painting on Claire’s wall.”

  “Ah. I didn’t know you’d seen Claire’s room.”

  “The first day I came to your house. You left early and Claire wanted to talk to me about Harry Spring. You remember him. My friend. The man you shot and tossed in a ditch.”

  Nelson ignored my taunt and spoke from his memory. “This is where Claire was conceived. I wanted her to see how lovely it was.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You took a gamble,” Nelson charged. “You decided Michael Whitson was the most likely suspect and took a chance that he’d end up here on the ranch. Back where it all started.”

  I nodded my head. “Does Claire know?” I asked.

  “That I am her natural father? Yes. She seems pleased.”

  “How about the rest of it?”

  “She knows the truth,” Nelson said simply.

  I told him to put his hands on the wall and spread his legs. He followed instructions and I patted him down. He didn’t have any more weapons. I gestured for him to sit on the couch and told him to keep his hands where I could see them, then pulled a chair over to where I could keep things calm and still be far enough away to avoid any foolishness that might occur to Nelson. We sat like that for quite a while, eyeing each other like applicants for the same job.

  “It must have been a bit tense, keeping your secret all those years,” I said finally. I wanted to get him talking, to get him to admit, at least to me, that he’d killed Harry. I was still a bit in awe of Roland Nelson; a confession would make the rest of it easier.

  “Not really,” Nelson replied. “In the beginning, in Seattle, no one paid the slightest attention to me. I had a menial job, so I was ignored, as menials always are. I bought a fake birth certificate, which got me a driver’s license and a Social Security card, and the new identity was established. Then when I became known, after the airplane disaster, I had to choose between a quasi-public existence and remaining incognito in Seattle. To atone for my earlier transgressions, I took the risk of exposure. But as it turned out, the risks were small. I gained thirty pounds, grew a beard, adopted an archaic speech pattern—modeled after my reading of Trollope, if it’s of interest—and here I am. No one, or almost no one, has recognized me in all these years.”

  Nelson chuckled. “We live in a time of glorious superficiality, Tanner. People assume your acquaintance if they know your astrological sign or your favorite Bordeaux or your views on nuclear power. The childhood years, the wellspring of the ecstasy and terror that make the psyche what it is, are nowadays considered trivial or boring. Which suited me just fine.”

  “You said ‘almost’ no one recognized you. Surely Sara Brooke did.”

  “Ah, the lovely Sara. I thought that might come up. Your interest is not dispassionate, is it? I’ve seen the way you look at her. I, of course, recognized Sara immediately when she applied for a position, even though I hadn’t seen her for ten years. As for what Sara knew, I believe I’ll leave that for her to answer. If you choose to ask the question.”

  “How did you find out Harry Spring had started looking for you? For Michael Whitson?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Mr. Tanner, you have discovered that I am Michael Whitson, and I have admitted it. I also admit that I struck Jedediah Peel on the back of the head twenty years ago and that the blow killed him, although it was not intended to do so. I acted solely in defense of Mrs. Peel and I do not believe I should be prosecuted for the deed. I deny that it was criminal. Nevertheless, I fled and I am prepared to face the consequences of that behavior.”

  “At long last.”


  “As you say. But, having acknowledged all that, I swear to you that I did not murder your friend Spring and I did not murder poor Mrs. Peel. Your assumption that I did, although understandable, is incorrect.”

  “You’re wasting your breath. I’m not some Congressman you’re debating over a new bill; hell, I’m not even a cop. I’m just a guy who lost a drinking buddy and tried to find out why. You killed Harry and three other people, counting your father. For all I know you brought Claire here to kill her, too. I think you’re probably nuts. I’m taking you in.”

  My words tugged Nelson up off the couch, propelled him toward me. “My father? What about my father?” he asked wildly. His words were wrapped with fear.

  “He’s dead,” I said. “The fire did the job.”

  “What fire?”

  “The one you set. Back at the ranch. The old man would have made it, but he ran back in to get that note you sent him, telling him you were alive. He didn’t make it out a second time.”

  I shoved Nelson back onto the couch. It was like pushing a balloon. He offered no resistance, seemed not to notice what was happening. He began to writhe from side to side, as if to avoid the arrows I had fired, but he was wounded by them. “It can’t be true,” he moaned heavily. “Dead? After all this time? My God. I didn’t go to him. Oh, my God. Is there no end to it?”

  “There’s an end, Nelson,” I said. “And this is it. You’re going to jail.”

  Nelson got up, his eyes on the ceiling, and began to walk. This time I let him go. He seemed undone, a man made mindless by the horror of his own deeds. He paced the floor, bumping into furniture, lurching blindly over scattered logs, stumbling pathetically over the remnants of his respectability.

  Gradually he seemed to reacquire his capacities. He returned to the couch and sat down and leaned toward me, a magnet seeking a shared sensitivity. “I can’t go to jail,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I realize you have no way of knowing I would take a life only in the most extreme circumstances, but you must know that I would never slay my own father. Never. No man would do such a thing. A son’s whole life is a memorial to his father.”

  “Crap. I’ve seen men who’ve murdered their fathers and mothers and wives and babies and they look just like everyone else. They probably are just like everyone else, except for an extra chromosome or electrolyte or psychic twitch. Maybe there isn’t any difference at all.”

  “Please. Give me time. Twenty-four hours.”

  “As far as I’m concerned you’re a killer, Nelson. You murdered a friend of mine and a little old lady who had nothing in the world except a heart that beat sixty times a minute and a man who hasn’t left his house since you ran away twenty years ago. I’m going to tell all that to the cops and then the D.A.’s going to tell all that to the jury. Maybe they’ll give you a break. I won’t.”

  “Listen to me, Tanner,” Nelson pleaded again. “Let me prove you’re mistaken. I can do it. I know who’s behind this. That’s the reason I brought Claire here. Don’t you see? I planned to leave her where she’d be safe and then go after the fiend myself. Give me a chance. I’ll leave Claire here with you. You can come after me in twenty-four hours. I’ll surrender to you then, at my house in the city.”

  “You’re nuts, Nelson.”

  “Please. I’m a man of honor. I give you my word.”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t let me go, there will be more killing. Others will die, including Claire. She’s in great danger.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me who’s going to do all this, and while you’re enlightening Sheriff Marks I can make sure this person doesn’t hurt Claire or anyone else.”

  Nelson shook his head. “I must do it myself.”

  “No soap. For my money you’re the man. But I’ll do this much. After I deliver you to the sheriff I’ll take Claire where she’ll be safe, just in case there’s someone in this thing with you. Now get Claire and let’s get going.”

  “My father must be avenged. Let me destroy his killer; let me dilute my betrayal. You understand vengeance, Tanner. It’s in your heart right now.”

  “Get moving.”

  “I beg of you.”

  “Sorry.”

  Nelson sighed heavily, then stood up and walked slowly to the bedroom door and tapped on it. “Claire? Will you come out here a minute?”

  The little motor started to whine and the door opened and Claire rode into the room, looking first at Nelson and then at me. “Mr. Tanner,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

  “I’m a detective; it’s my business to find people.” I grinned and she grinned back. She still thought I was on her side.

  Claire turned to her father. “Can I tell him? About you and me?”

  “He knows,” Nelson grunted. He was staring into the black shadows at the far end of the room.

  “Isn’t it incredible?” Claire went on. “I was so surprised.”

  “So was I,” I said. “You’d better get dressed, Claire. We’re going to have to leave here.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “He’s going to turn me in to the police,” Nelson said quietly. “He thinks I killed his friend.”

  Shock lengthened the roundness in Claire’s face, creating parabolas of pain. “But you didn’t. He didn’t, Mr. Tanner. Tell him, Daddy.”

  “I told him. He didn’t believe me.”

  Claire looked from Nelson to me and back again. Her lips began to tremble and her hands clasped each other tightly.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” I said, but she was already crying.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The first shot caught Nelson on the left shoulder and slammed him against the couch. The second whizzed by my ear and thudded into the wall behind me. I don’t know where the third one went.

  Claire was screaming as I ran to her and shoved her, chair and all, back toward the bedroom. A fourth shot exploded somewhere behind me just as I caught up with the wheelchair and steered it into the bedroom.

  I lifted Claire off the chair. She was light and breakable, like a wounded bird, but she hadn’t been hit. I laid her down on the floor and pushed her under one of the beds and told her to stay there till I called. Then I crouched beside the door and looked back into the living room.

  Nelson had crawled around to the back of the couch and was propped up against it, squeezing his wound with his right hand. The hand and wrist were streaked with blood. Pain had crumpled his face, but he was conscious. The wound looked high enough to be safely away from the heart.

  “Where is he?” I hissed.

  “The shots must have come from the front door,” Nelson answered, gritting his teeth, “but I haven’t heard anything since.”

  “He may be around back. If he is, there’s nothing to keep him from picking you off through the window.”

  “Thanks,” he grunted.

  “Can you use a gun, or do you just carry one to be fashionable?” I asked.

  “I can use one.”

  “Here.” I took the forty-five out of my pocket and slid it across the floor. It clattered like a freight train in a tunnel.

  “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about me, Tanner?”

  “It just means I want to keep both of us alive. The gun’s returnable on demand.”

  Nelson nodded. “What do we do now?”

  I told him I wasn’t sure, but that he’d be better off over against the wall, below the window and beside the chair. He nodded again and crawled over to the place I’d suggested. The gunman would still have a shot at him from the south window, but it was a tough angle.

  “Tanner,” Nelson called, “I want you to get Claire out of here. I’m going out the front. Give me a minute, then take Claire out the back. If we’re lucky, you can get away while he’s concentrating on me.”

  “I’m not that lucky and neither are you. Shut up for a minute.”


  I listened for anything that might tell where the gunman was, but the silence roared like a waterfall. Then the wind gusted and the trees began to sing and for several seconds he could have been close enough to touch me before I heard him.

  The smell of cordite hung in the room like a broken chandelier. I looked over at Nelson. His wound was still bleeding, and his eyes were closed. He didn’t seem to have much strength.

  “Claire,” Nelson yelled suddenly. “I’m all right, honey. Don’t worry.”

  “Daddy?” Claire answered faintly. “Are you all right? I want to be with you.”

  I shook my head at Nelson. “It’s all right, Claire,” he shouted back. “You’re safer where you are. Just stay put, honey.”

  I motioned for Nelson to keep still. I thought I’d heard the scrape of a boot on the front porch and looked toward the sound, but nothing appeared in the doorway and I didn’t hear anything more.

  I looked over the room again, trying to find a way to get a look at whoever it was that wanted us dead. To my left, over against the wall, some boards had been nailed in place, one above the other, making a narrow ladder up the side of the cabin. I asked Nelson where it went and he told me there was a small storage loft above the kitchen. I asked him if there was a window up there and he said there was.

  It took a couple of minutes for me to ease my way along the wall until I came to the ladder, but they were quiet minutes, cautious minutes. I climbed up.

  It was dark in the loft, hot and close and stifling. Sweat ran down my forehead and into my eyes. I rubbed them and made it worse. I crawled to the window at the back and knelt beside it, waiting for my lungs to quit bucking. My nose started to itch. The dust in the air tasted like salt. I closed my eyes and let my night vision develop.

  After another minute I looked outside. The moon was higher now and things were a little brighter, but not much. I could make out the silhouette of Nelson’s car over in the trees, but everything else I could see had been there for a long time.