by JM Gulvin
‘Right there,’ he pointed with the pistol. ‘The tailgate, open it for me.’
Briers did as he was told, swinging the rear door wide before he looked back. Gesturing with the pistol, he told him to fetch the long-handled shovel and Briers did that. He told him to fetch the tow rope as well. Briers hesitated, his gaze once more on the pistol before he turned and bent for the rope.
With the flat of the shovel he smashed the big man across the head. Briers buckled; a moan escaping his lips he toppled forward so he slumped over the lip of the trunk. Voices sounded from further down the path. Throwing the shovel into the car, he reached for Briers’s legs and managed to lift him, heft his legs around and shove his bulk in the back. He just about had the door closed before two nurses appeared through the trees.
Side-by-side they walked up the path making for the last two cars and he heard their voices clearly.
‘Charlie’s car’s still there,’ one of them said. ‘I thought I saw him leave.’
That voice: listening to that voice he stood absolutely still. He was peering through the darkness as the two women came alongside and there she was with her dark hair pinned back under her cap. Nurse Nancy and another much younger woman, they walked right past the Oldsmobile but they did not see him in the shadows and they did not spot the unconscious man in the back.
He watched them. He started after them. Two paces, three, then he stopped, with the gun gripped in one hand and the other bunched in a fist. Now he just stood there watching as they both got in one car and Nancy backed out of the parking spot. He watched as she pulled away. He watched till the tail lights were no more than a glow.
Briers remained slumped in the back of the station wagon and when he got behind the wheel he could hear his childlike moans. He drove south of the city into woodland and marsh. He drove asphalt till he found dirt, then he took that dirt deep into cypress and live oak where Spanish moss seemed to list in the breeze. Finally he came to a clearing on the edge of slack water where an old cabin jutted from the shadows. Pulling over, he allowed the car to idle for a moment as Briers let out another moan.
Shutting off the engine he left the headlights on and they coated the walls of the cabin in a whitened wash. Walking round to the back of the car he had the gun in his waistband as he opened the trunk. Briers looked up but his gaze was thick and he was breathing heavily. He could sit just about and he perched precariously on the tailgate. Then he tumbled. Like a tree being felled, he tried to save himself by throwing out a leg but it couldn’t take his weight and he sprawled in the dirt.
Standing back from the car he looked down at Briers but did not reach for the gun. Instead he sought the shovel and held it loosely at his side. He sat on the tailgate with the door pressed wide, the shovel across his lap, one foot on the ground and the other swinging back and forth. He looked down on the big man where he lay with his back to him, bathed in the crimson glow of the tail lights.
‘What do you want?’ Somehow Briers was talking, his voice overloud, the sound bouncing off the trees. ‘For pity’s sake.’ With another moan he managed to get one elbow underneath and rolled over so they faced each other.
Still cradling the shovel, he stared across the flattened marsh.
‘Where is she?’
‘Where is who? Who’re you talking about?’ Briers’s breathing was ragged, a sucking sound in his chest.
‘You know who I’m talking about. Where is she?’ Still that one leg dangled, perched as he was on the tailgate, like a pendulum it drifted back and forth. ‘Where did she run to?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
Sliding off the tailgate he was on his feet. ‘I asked you where she is.’
‘And I told you I don’t know.’ Briers lifted a hand. ‘I swear to God, I don’t know who she is.’
Like a scythe he swung the shovel. It cut through the stillness and caught Briers’s hand. Blood flew, two fingers sliced through the knuckle, like a child the big man screamed.
‘For God’s sake, none of this is my fault. I was only there to keep an eye on you.’ Features contorted he was clutching his shattered hand. ‘I wasn’t the one brought you to Trinity. I wasn’t the one sat you down. I didn’t know anything about it. I followed orders. I only did what I was told.’
‘Where is she?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t know.’ Briers was sobbing, clutching his hand under his arm, he lay on his side with his cheek in the dirt. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
On his heels he had the gun in his hand and he worked the barrel across Briers’s cheek.
‘Sure you do. You were there, the three of you. I saw Ms Gavin and Nancy in the other room.’
Briers twisted his head to the side. ‘It was nothing to do with us. We had no idea what Beale was planning or what he was going to do.’
He peered beyond Briers to the cabin wall. ‘It was you who brought me to that room. It was you had me sit down and it was you who brought her in.’ He leaned closer to Briers still. ‘I told you what would happen. I swore I’d kill you all and I will.’
On his feet again he paced back and forth, criss-crossing the pale bands thrown out by the Oldsmobile’s headlights. ‘Tell me where she is. I’m not going to wait all night. I’m done here so tell me where she is.’
‘I can’t,’ Briers whimpered. ‘I can’t tell you where she is because I don’t know who she is.’
‘You’re lying.’ He was on him again, legs astride he had him by the collar of his soiled white coat. ‘Don’t you lie to me. I’m sick of people lying to me. Don’t lie to me, Briers. Not anymore.’ He pressed his face very close. ‘I saw Nancy walking by just now and if I didn’t already have your ass in the trunk I’d have gone for her right then. I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to stop till I get what I want and I meant everything I said. If you don’t tell me what I want to know I’ll go ask Nancy.’
‘She doesn’t know,’ Briers said. ‘Nancy doesn’t know and neither did Mary-Beth.’
‘She knew all right. She had to know because she kept the records.’ He bent close. ‘Only she didn’t tell me.’ He lifted Briers by the collar before slamming his head in the dirt.
Briers cried out, teeth raking his lips, his eyes rolling right over so the whites were clearly visible.
‘Did you hear what I said? I almost had it out of her but I was squeezing her throat so hard she was gone before she could say.’
‘I can’t help you,’ Briers wailed. ‘I don’t know where she is. I don’t know anything about her.’
With a sigh he rose to his full height. Weighing the pistol in a palm he dug it into his pants. Then he looked down at Briers again and he looked at the long-handled shovel. He seemed to consider for a moment. Then he picked up the shovel and as he swung the big man sobbed where he lay.
Twenty-three
When morning came she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling where a little gray spider had woven a web so fine it was all but invisible save where it caught in strands of sunlight. She lay with her arms at her sides and the blankets up to her chin, her hair no longer in a plait but splayed across the pillow. From the front door she could hear the sound of the bell ringing. She could hear the weight of boots on the wooden step and then the bell again followed by the sound of somebody knocking.
She did not move. She did not get up. Next to her on the nightstand were the photos she had dug out last night. She lay with her head to the side staring at those photos until the knocking ceased. She lay until the sound of footfall left the step. She lay until the sound came a second time, only at the back of the house where he knocked all over again. As if he did not believe the house was empty, he knocked again and again.
Sitting up finally, she threw off the bedclothes and crossed to the hall. No nightdress, no robe, she hovered for a moment and she could see his shadow, the shape of his hat through the frosted glass. He knocked again and she was reaching for a robe when she saw him walk
away. Throwing the robe around her shoulders she made for the door then paused and crossed to the living-room window. She saw him walk to his car. She went to the front door but again she hesitated. She heard an engine fire and she fumbled with the dead bolt and safety chain. She had the door open finally and was out on the stoop in the cool of the morning but he was already driving away.
Inside the house she rested with her back to the door and the flat of her hands at the base of her spine. Eyes closed, she rocked back and forth. In the kitchen she switched on the coffee pot and squatted on a stool. Reaching for the telephone her hand shook a little as she dialled.
A woman’s voice answered. ‘Bellevue Sanatorium, can I help you?’
‘I need to speak to Dr Beale.’
‘I’ll see if he’s available. Who’s calling please?’
‘Clara – I mean Carla. Carla Simpson. Tell him it’s very important.’
‘All right,’ the operator said. ‘I’ll see if I can connect you.’ The line clicked then seemed to die for a moment before Beale’s voice sounded.
‘Carla, what is it? Has something happened?’
‘I had to speak to you. That policeman was just here – the one I told you about, the Texas Ranger.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘No, I didn’t. He showed up just now and I was still in bed and I didn’t answer the door. I don’t know why I did that. I should’ve spoken to him but yesterday you told me you were dealing with it and—’
‘I am dealing with it,’ Beale cut in. ‘You did the right thing. There’s no need for you to talk to anyone. There’s no need for you to be involved. If you get involved now it will all come out, everything that happened; everything that went on back then.’ He broke off for a moment then he said, ‘You don’t need that. You don’t want that. It’ll do nobody any good. Now, listen to me. It’s as I said: there is nothing to worry about. Nobody is going ask you any questions. Just go on with your life, OK?’
Hanging up the phone, Beale peered across the desk to where Nancy was looking on with her shoulders hunched and her arms folded across her chest.
‘Nothing to worry about? Are you kidding me?’
Beale held her gaze. ‘Nancy, what I said to her applies to you too. There’s no need to speak to anyone and there is no need for panic. I can handle this and I will.’
‘So you’ll go to the police? You’ll tell them what happened at Trinity, how this all got out of hand?’
‘Didn’t you hear me just now?’ Beale said. ‘The last thing we need is the police.’ He let go a shortened breath. ‘He won’t let them take him. They’ll kill him, Nancy, and he doesn’t deserve that. We don’t deserve it. Now, I said I’ll deal with this and I will.’
‘Are you sure? Are you sure you can? Are you sure it’s not too late?’ She stepped a few paces closer to the desk. ‘If you want my opinion I think you’ve let your ego get in the way. I think …’
She broke off as color flushed through Beale’s cheeks. On his feet he paced around the desk.
‘I don’t want your opinion,’ he said. ‘I don’t need your opinion, and as for my ego – this is about science not ego. When all’s said and done the only thing I did was have him brought to Trinity.’
‘That may be, but he didn’t belong there, did he? He’d committed no crime and he did not belong in a place like that. I swear to God, if I had my time again I would never have agreed.’
‘You would never have agreed?’ Beale’s tone was suddenly derisory. ‘It wasn’t up to you. You’re not in charge. I could’ve used any of the nurses I wanted.’
‘But you didn’t.’ Nancy fixed her gaze on his. ‘You used me because I knew her better than anyone else and you asked Charlie because he could handle both of them if it came to it. Shock treatment – well it shocked all right, only not in the way you thought.’ The fear in her eyes was tangible. ‘Doctor, no matter what you told her just now, you need to go to the police. Mary-Beth is dead and so is Ike. We both know why and we both know how this ends.’
She was trembling, a shudder in her shoulders, her hands knotted. ‘Anyway, there’s something else, something you need to know. It’s why I came up here. Charlie Briers didn’t show up for work this morning.’
Beale stared at her and his gaze was as troubled as hers now. Nancy glanced above his head at the clock on the wall.
‘His shift started at seven and it’s almost nine thirty. He’s never late and he’s never had a day off sick.’
Beale was open-mouthed. ‘Have you called his house?’
‘Of course I have. I did that as soon as I knew he wasn’t here. I got no answer on the phone so I thought he might be on his way, but when I checked his car was still in the parking lot and it was there when I left last night.’
Twenty-four
Quarrie made his way back to the highway. Twice now he had called at Carla Simpson’s house and twice nobody came to the door. She might not have been home last night, but a car was in the drive this morning and he was positive she had heard him knock. Why she didn’t answer he had no idea, but he figured he’d have headquarters ask somebody in the Tulsa police department to call as soon as he got to a phone.
He drove south once more and stopped at the Bowen house where Isaac answered the door in a bathrobe, his hair still wet from the shower. Showing Quarrie into the kitchen he went to get dressed. A few minutes later he came back with his Army uniform on a coat hanger. Draping it over a ladder-backed chair he dug out the ironing board and plugged in the steam iron.
‘I like to keep stuff neat,’ he explained. ‘Probably I get that from my dad – he was a stickler for neatness. I guess I told you already. Used to drive Mom crazy, like there was never anything for her to do, how he insisted on doing the dishes and pressing his own clothes. You know what I mean?’
Taking a cigarette from his pocket Quarrie rolled it across his palm. ‘But you’re discharged now, right?’ He nodded to where the iron was heating up. ‘You’re no longer in the service.’
‘That’s right. I’m no longer in the service and I guess I don’t need to be doing this anymore, but I’ve been in so long it’s a habit already, and you never know when I might need the uniform again.’
Quarrie nodded. ‘So what’re you going to do then? For work I mean, now that you’re a civilian? Have you got something figured out?’
Isaac shrugged. ‘I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve got more important things to worry about, like whether my dad killed himself or if someone came to the house. I have to find out whether my brother died in that fire.’
‘Do you think he did?’
‘I really don’t know.’ With a sigh then Isaac set the iron on its heel. ‘I found some papers, some stuff my Dad signed. I need you to take a look.’ Opening a drawer in the worktop he brought out a couple of sheets of paper. ‘From the hospital, I found it in his desk last night when I was down in the study.’
Two parts of a medical discharge form from a sanatorium in Houston dated January 1967, Quarrie read them carefully.
‘That’s Dad’s signature right there.’ Isaac indicated the scribble at the bottom of the second page.
Quarrie looked up at him. ‘Isaac, this form signs Ishmael out of Houston into Dr Beale’s care.’
‘Right,’ Isaac said. ‘And I don’t get that. I mean, like you said, Trinity was an asylum for criminals and Ish never hurt a fly.’
Again Quarrie studied the papers. ‘You need to make some phone calls. Houston first, this sanatorium right here.’ He tapped the page. ‘See if you can’t get some answers. They won’t talk to me on account of I’m a cop and unless I can prove that your brother is a danger to the public or himself, they’ll just quote patient confidentiality. Right now I can’t even tell them if he’s alive.’ He looked squarely at Isaac then. ‘They have to talk to you, though. They might not do that on the phone. They might insist you be there in person. But you’re next of kin now your dad is gone and that means you’re responsible.�
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‘Responsible.’ Isaac had his brows knit. ‘Responsible for what?’
‘For your brother, at least technically anyhow: that paper says he was committed to the hospital in Houston and it was your dad that had him certified. That meant Ishmael was unstable enough to not be responsible for his actions or wellbeing. Isaac, if he is still alive then you’re responsible now.’
Isaac called the sanatorium in Houston but there were no physicians available and the receptionist told him he would have to come down in person. Hanging up, he dialled the number for Bellevue but they told him only Dr Beale could give him the answers he wanted and he was away. Putting the phone down again, Isaac went outside to get some air and a few minutes later Quarrie followed. Overhead the sun was high and Isaac stood with his back to the house and his arms across his chest, gazing into the woodland that grew up ahead of the lake.
‘I called you that day because I wanted to know who it was that shot my father.’ He gestured towards the garage. ‘I showed you that passageway because that’s how I figured they got in.’
‘They didn’t.’ Quarrie assured him. ‘I’ve told you already. And you’ve said it yourself: nobody could get in there unless they knew how that panel worked. Whoever it was must’ve rung the bell and your dad opened the door. I figure they had a gun on him and he had no choice but to let them in.’
Isaac turned from the yard to face him. ‘So if they had a gun on him, why kill him with one of his?’
‘Guns can be traced, Isaac, bullets matched. The perp used his own weapon to get in the house but after that why not use one of your dad’s? Suicide,’ he said. ‘Any trail ends there and it worked already: the sheriff’s detectives went for it.’
