Our Fathers (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  Diane asked, "Are you all right? Is there anything we can do before we leave?"

  "No, you've already done plenty. I just need some sleep. I'll be all right in the morning." He thought he was probably lying, but he had had enough caring for. He wished it were tomorrow night. By then he would feel better. And Kelly would be there. "One thing before you go. If anyone figures this out, don't go checking it out alone. Whatever we do, we do together. That was one of Matt's stipulations and, seeing what happened here tonight, I think it's a good one."

  As they went down the front steps, Ben stopped them. "Wait a minute. I just thought of something."

  "That's pretty good, for you," said Christy.

  "Oh yeah? Well, have you thought about Mom?"

  "What about her?"

  "She wasn't crazy about us coming here. It's only a few houses from where Matt was killed."

  "I don't think she knew it was so close. What's your point?"

  "So what's she going to say if we tell her what happened tonight? If she finds out about him being clobbered, we'll never see this place again."

  "Oh." She knew he was right. Christy was good at getting around her mother. She had developed and tested several reliable methods, and had a talent for knowing which ones to use in different circumstances. She knew without thinking about it that nothing would work if her mother heard of the attack. Still, she was not a good liar. It was unnatural to her and made her feel a little dirty.

  Ben said, "I don't mean we have to lie." He knew his sister. "We just won't mention it."

  She seemed doubtful, but said, "Yeah, I guess so." She loved puzzles, and very much wanted to go on with this.

  Ben asked the other two, "That okay with you guys?"

  Alex and Diane looked at each other. Alex shrugged. Diane said, "Hey, she's your mother."

  Harry could see better in the dark. Distractions were blotted out. Even the few neighborhood sounds that came into the house seemed muted. Facts could be lined up and sorted. Pieces could be matched with other pieces. Patterns could be seen. Sitting in the quiet darkness, he took a pull on the beer, asked the question again, and almost immediately had the answer. All right, he thought, that's possible. But who, and why? Well, the 'why' was easy enough. The 'who' could have been a lot of people.

  He went back over all the people he knew about, narrowing it down to a couple of probables. Now, was there any way to narrow it to one? And even if he did, did it have anything to do with the death of Matt Carlsberg? Or the quest?

  His fingers moved slowly through the silky fur of the cat on his lap as his mind nosed through the scenes in his mind. Then, as often happens, an idea was there, coming seemingly from nowhere. He hadn't arrived at it logically. It was just there, supplied by some deeper, wiser part of the brain. He almost rejected it as fanciful, but knew from experience not to do that. He examined it, and began to see how other things, facts, observations, events, lined up to support the idea.

  But was there proof? That was the real question, and he knew the answer to that. He could imagine the fun any reasonably competent defense attorney would have with it. Of course, for the same reason, no reasonably competent prosecutor would present it. He would need a lot more.

  The cat got up, turned around once and settled himself in a new position. Harry considered for a while the evidence he had, what else he might be able to get. That pubic hair would be good as support, but he didn't want to have to rely on it. Genetic fingerprinting might match it with the person it came from, and this kind of evidence was generally accepted in court. Still, even with the most solid scientific evidence, he knew how easy it was to cast that little veil of reasonable doubt. Couldn't there have been a mistake in the lab? Was the genetic material tested a large enough sample to preclude ambiguous results? There was nothing scarier for a prosecutor than a capital case that rested entirely on one piece of evidence.

  He considered calling Mickie at home, then decided against it. She might be with the boyfriend. He could kid her about the time she spent with Paul, but he knew it was important to her. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.

  He wondered how she would like the idea of a stakeout. He could almost bet she had never been on one. He remembered his former partner who used to say that going on stakeout was almost as exciting as trimming your toenails, and not nearly as dangerous. He had been killed sitting in the car, watching a house and not what was coming up behind him.

  Harry sat in the darkness, satisfied that he had found his answer, a little sad at what it was. Some people die and some go to prison, but there are always the relatives left behind to mourn, to explain, to try to start over or try to live it down. Always the relatives. And nobody wins.

  Now there was only one thing he didn't understand. One mystery left. How did that cat get up in his lap without his being aware?

  When he was alone, Terry locked the house. It was the first time the doors had been locked since he had arrived. He felt foolish doing it—locking the barn door and all that. Even so, it gave him a sense of security. His head was still throbbing. He didn't feel up to any more wrestling in the dark with chairs.

  He wondered how the intruder had known when he would be back. He couldn't have seen the street from either the living room or the bedroom—those were on the beach side of the house.

  He wandered into the kitchen and saw that no one had bothered to check that room. Not that much had happened. The drawers were open, but not emptied. A few cans and bottles were off the shelves. When he thought about it, it made sense. The kitchen windows gave a good view of the street. The living room and bedroom, probably the bathroom too, had already been ransacked. The kitchen had just been started on, the searcher beginning to lose hope, when Terry had come down the street. What would he do? Run for it? He could easily have gone out the beachside door. Instead, he had picked up the chair, stood by the door, and attacked. There was desperation there.

  He went to bed afraid he wouldn't be able to sleep, but a more basic part of him knew he needed it for healing. Despite the dull ache in his head, he was unconscious within minutes. His dreams were anxious ones, of necessary things he couldn't quite do, or terrible things he had to prevent, but couldn't. At one point, he was being chased through a forest by something. He had had dreams like this before. His legs wouldn't work properly, and he kept tripping and falling. Then the dream took an unusual twist. As he fell, his hand came down on a stick. It was hard and heavy and felt good in his hand. His pursuer came through the trees, snarling. As it closed on him, he swung his club and caught it on the side of the head. He hit it again and again, and felt wonderful. After that, his dreaming mind wandered off to something else, finally sliding into a deeper, dreamless state.

  He woke suddenly, lying on his left side. He turned quickly to take the weight off the arm. It was no longer numb, and hurt like the devil. His sudden motion had caused his head to start in again, too. He lay in the darkness, being miserable, waiting for the pain to subside. He felt exhausted, wanting desperately to go back to sleep. The ache in his arm slowly eased off. It wasn't the bone-deep kind that goes with fractures, but he knew the muscles of his upper arm were badly bruised. Not dangerous, but damned uncomfortable.

  After ten minutes he gave up and stumbled into the bathroom for aspirin. Instead of turning on the overhead light, he switched on the light in the shower. Coming through the translucent door, it let him see what he was doing without blinding him with the sudden glare. He got down the aspirin and checked his watch. Almost 3:00.

  As he was getting back into bed, he saw the light. It flashed and was gone. At first he thought it was his eyes readjusting to the dark. Then it was there again. On the beach, he thought. No, closer than that, off at an angle to the right, about where the low hills of sand met the flatness of the beach. Who would be out there? Somebody making out, probably. But at 3:00 in the morning? In November? They'd have to be as hardy as they were horny.

  He saw somebody move. Apparently just one somebody. Th
e figure stopped, then moved again, and stopped. Clouds had moved in to cover the moon, and the streetlights didn't reach that part of the dunes. It was a shadow moving among shadows.

  He pulled on pants, reached for a sweatshirt and thought better of it. He didn't want to pull anything over his head just yet. Instead, he picked up his jacket, and headed for the kitchen. He went to the cupboard where he remembered putting the flashlight, groping in the dark until he found it.

  Before opening the beachside door, he peered through a window at the place he had seen the light. There were only the shadows and the lighter crests of the dunes and the bent, slightly waving stalks of the sea oats. Was anyone really there? He was surprised to find that he wanted there to be. He was tired and hurt and he wanted to go back to bed. But he was also angry. In a sort of delayed reaction, he remembered that someone had come in and searched his possessions, had attacked him in the dark, had taken something from him by force, had left him hurt. As in the dream, he wanted to turn with the stick in his hand and hurt back.

  The door stuck and made a cracking noise as he opened it. He held still, listening, hoping the sound of the surf had covered it. He went down the steps quickly and felt the sand cold under his bare feet. Bending low, he followed the path that was just a lighter trace in the darkness. When he came to the beach, he stopped, listening. Nothing but the surf and a slight breeze. He waited for a minute, on one knee, hoping the light would go on again. Still nothing. He stood up slowly, willing himself to see in the dark, searching for any motion.

  As he stood there, something – an eerie feeling—told him to look behind him. He turned slowly, the flashlight in his right hand ready to strike. Two hundred yards up the beach was the Mariner Hotel. A few exterior lights, even at 3:00 in the morning, lit the walkways and the pool area. He saw a running black silhouette leave the beach, and disappear into the dark ridges of sand.

  "Damn it to hell!" He swung at the nearest bunch of sea oats with the flashlight, but they only leaned a little and came back up. He used the flashlight for its original purpose, making his way to where he thought he had seen the light. He searched for several minutes, but found nothing.

  For the rest of the night he slept fitfully, dreaming once of searching for something he had lost. He woke late, the sun through the windows warming his legs. His arm was stiff, but reasonable, and his head was sore only when he touched it. Despite all that had happened, he thought, he felt pretty good. And hungry. And tonight, thank God, Kelly would be there.

  CHAPTER 20

  Terry left the keyboard early. His bruised shoulder made his left hand even more clumsy than usual. It was a painful reminder of what had happened the night before, and coupled with more pleasant thoughts of Kelly arriving that evening, made it hard to concentrate.

  Walking on the beach that afternoon, he turned left from the house to pass the Mariner. He found where the dark figure of last night had left the beach. Broad, wooden steps went up over the dunes, around the far side of the hotel. Following them to the end, he saw the front of the hotel to his left, the parking lot to his right. Whoever it was must have come this way. Which way from here? Into the hotel? More likely to the parking lot, into a car, and home. Had he heard a car start up? He couldn't remember. He would have to tell Chervenic when he called him.

  Back on the beach, he walked to the pier and back at a quicker pace than usual. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that Kelly might be there when he got back. Even though he knew she probably wouldn't be there before seven, he was disappointed when he kicked the sand off his shoes, walked in and found the place empty.

  He called Chervenic at the station. He told him about the figure he had seen and where it had gone. This brought a long silence on the other end. He finally asked, "You there?"

  "Yeah. Thinking, that's all. I'm sorry."

  "About what?"

  "About not giving you a stronger warning."

  "You knew this would happen?"

  "I thought something might happen. I just didn't think it would be so soon. Somebody's in a real hurry."

  "You mean someone else wants whatever it is we're after?"

  Chervenic hesitated. "Something like that."

  "You know what it is, then?"

  "Not yet. Are you sure you want to go on with this?"

  "I'm sure. Yesterday, I thought it might be better to wait awhile, but now I'm pissed. And every time I touch my head, or do something with this left arm, I get more pissed. No, I'm sure."

  "What about the others?"

  "That's something else again. They're coming by a little after five. I'll see what they want to do. Anything I should tell them?"

  "Just what I said before. Be careful and stick together. I don't think you'll have any more trouble. And if you find anything, let me know right away. Or if you go anywhere, give me a warning."

  "You're not going to tell me what's going on, are you?" He could almost hear the wheels going around in Chervenic's head.

  "Not just yet. It's better that way."

  Twenty minutes later, when he heard a car stop out front, Terry hurried out to the porch. Instead of Kelly, he saw Diane climbing out of an old, orange MG. She wore her usual blue jeans, a dark green windbreaker and a floppy, knitted gray cap. She looked around and then up at Terry. "Nobody else here yet?" She came up the steps saying, "I thought the others would be here. Alex is picking up Christy and Ben. I hope Annabelle didn't change her mind and decide to ground them. It would be just like her."

  When they were inside he asked, "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Do you have any herbal tea?"

  He couldn't remember seeing any. "Darned it I know. Kelly brought a bunch of stuff down last weekend. We could look."

  They moved into the kitchen, and began opening cupboard doors. As she stretched to peer into the upper shelves, Terry was very aware of her tight pants, her long legs and her youth. He felt pleasantly uncomfortable and awkward being alone with her.

  Diane found the box of tea bags with an "Ah ha!" and went to the stove to put fire under the kettle. "Would you like some, too?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  As he was getting two mugs from the cupboard, she asked, "Who's Kelly?"

  "Kelly? She owns the place."

  She turned with an inquisitive look. "Really? She's your landlady?"

  "I'm borrowing the place."

  "Then she must be a very good friend."

  "Sort of. She's coming down for the weekend."

  He realized it was the first time he had seen her smile. Last night and at the lawyer's office, she had seemed so serious he had wondered if she had any humor at all. Now he realized he was being teased. "Oh, good," she said, "I'm glad for you."

  He laughed and said, "So am I," and felt suddenly more at ease with her.

  They took their tea into the living room. She asked if he was feeling better. "The arm's a little stiff, but I'll live. Did you have any luck with the riddle?"

  Her expression answered for her. "Daddy likes word puzzles, and Alex is always doing crosswords. I'm a dunce at that stuff."

  He sipped the hot cranberry flavored drink, and found himself wishing it was the real stuff, the kind Matt had brewed. "I looked at it a couple of times, but I didn't get anywhere. I think it's one of those things that have a key, or maybe you have to look at it in just the right way. I just don't know where to start."

  "I didn't even try," she said. "I know better."

  Terry wasn't listening to the last few words. Another car had pulled up. This time he recognized the rumble of the Miata.

  "Excuse me. That's got to be Kelly."

  He went down the steps to meet her, realizing she couldn't have left much after three to get here by this time. She still wore business clothes, a dark green suit and heels. She must have come straight from work. Before saying anything, he kissed her slowly, then held her very close, enjoying the nearness and the feel of her. She put her mouth to his ear. "I think I got here just in time."<
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  "Believe it."

  "Well, unless you intend to have your way with me here on the sidewalk, we'd better go inside. Oh, and I brought some more groceries, including two steaks and a bottle of wine."

  She started handing him bags, then noticed he wasn't using his left arm. "What's the matter with your arm?" Then she saw the slight swelling on the side of his head, and looked closer.

  "Don't touch. It's still sore. Let's get this stuff inside."

  They went in through a door that led directly to the kitchen. Terry put down what he was carrying, and filled his arms with Kelly again. Even the left arm did its part.

  As she came up for air, she glanced toward the living room. Diane had taken off her sneakers, and was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, watching. When their eyes met, Diane smiled and lifted her mug in salute. Kelly looked back at Terry and, nodding toward Diane said, "She's a little young for you, isn't she?"

  "You think so?" He looked in at Diane and then continued, "What are you saying—I'm getting old?"

  She stepped back from him. "What I'm saying is, you'd better be kidding."

  "Not to worry. She's just part of an inheritance. If you think she's young, wait till you see the sixteen-year-old."

  "All right, Eason. Enough." She grabbed his arm, the right one, and together they went into the living room.

  "Kelly, this is Diane Carlsberg. Matt's niece."

  "We're on a quest," said Diane.

  "Both of you?"

  "No, the five of us." An idea widened her eyes. "How about you? Would you like to make it six?"

  "I don't know. What kind of quest?"

  Terry said, "We haven't the foggiest idea."

  "Would you like some tea?" asked Diane.

  "No, I want somebody to make sense. Is it the cranberry?"

  "Yes. The water's still almost hot."

  "Well, yes. I ran into a lot of traffic on this end. I could do with a cup."

  Diane uncoiled and went into the kitchen. Kelly watched her go. "She has very long legs, hasn't she?"