I finished the last of the coffee and tried to get my thoughts together. What if he was there? What did I mean to do? Hold a midnight interrogation? Trap him into some damning admission? My God, why was I so willing to believe he was guilty? I’d known the man for nearly ten years; that had to be worth something.
The lights of Pass Manchac blurred by on the right. I was leaving the swamps now, and soon I’d be in the pine woods. I cracked my window to get some fresh air and flinched as the cold breeze hit me in the face. It was going on one-thirty, and sane people were asleep.
Which proved all the people in Ponchatoula were sane. The only sign of life was the traffic light, a bloodshot eye that held me at the crossroads like a dare, flashing green in its own good time. I turned right, heading east along a two-lane. Ahead of me lumbered a lopsided car with one taillight, which seemed to have second thoughts and pulled to the side as I approached. For the next ten minutes, except for two trucks coming from the other direction I saw no one.
How the hell was I going to know where to turn? It wasn’t like I could ask at the local filling station. But then I saw it ahead of me, a big sign that had been new five years ago but now sagged badly: PINE HILLS ESTATES. An arrow pointed right. I slowed and took the road indicated. I’d had my radio on, to catch an all-night jazz station from New Orleans, but now I turned it off and rolled my window all the way down. Crickets chirped, and my tires made slick sounds on the blacktop. The road deteriorated as I went, and I slowed to a sedate ten miles an hour. Three miles after the turnoff I came to another sign, this one with an arrow indicating a dirt road to the left. I left the pavement, and the slick sounds changed to the crunching of gravel. The night closed around me, the road becoming a tunnel through the trees.
All at once I glimpsed a cabin on the right. It was a two-story, with a Jeep wagon in the drive and reflectors on the mailbox, and I knew it wasn’t Cal’s place. The road ended in a T intersection, and I saw other cabins in both directions. I halted. Straight ahead there was a blackness even more profound than the night itself, and when I listened I heard frogs croaking. I had come to the lake.
I turned right and cruised slowly pass the lakefront properties. There were only a couple of cabins, I realized, the rest of the lots being unimproved. Some of them had For Sale signs, and I guessed the development had pretty well gone bust with the oil crash of ’eighty-six. I reached the end and turned around, headed back in the other direction.
I came to the crossroads, wondering if anyone had been awake in the cabin with the Jeep parked outside. The other places didn’t seem occupied, but it only took one person to call the sheriff about a suspicious car.
The first cabin on the other side of the crossroads was apparently unoccupied. I was beginning to think I’d struck out when I came to the turnaround at the end and saw Cal’s van. It was pulled up beside the last cabin on the far side, away from the road, and there were no lights on in the place.
I took my flashlight and got out, walking over to the van. The engine cover was cold, but he could have killed the boy at ten-thirty and gotten here by twelve, and the motor would have had nearly two hours to cool.
I moved carefully around the van, my feet sinking silently into the pine needles. The air smelled of ozone, fresh and tingling, unlike the heavy mud smell of the city. Somewhere in the darkness a fish plopped in the water, making me freeze for a second. I made my way to the side of the cabin and looked through the window.
It was dark inside, too dark for me to see if he was there, so I came around the side to the back and put my hand on the door handle. It was unlocked, and I pushed the door open carefully, an inch at a time.
I found myself in the kitchen, I could make out some canned goods on a low shelf, barely visible in the gloom. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and something sour. I started to risk the overhead light but thought better of it. I made my way across the kitchen to the doorway and started through, and my foot came down on something hard and slippery. A bottle shot out from under my foot, rolling against the wall as I lost my balance and tumbled against the doorframe, the flashlight falling out of my hand to crash onto the board floor. I swallowed a curse and bent to pick it up, and that was when I hard the noise behind me and felt the cold gun barrel poking the middle of my back.
The lights blazed on and the man behind me muttered an oath.
“Micah, what the hell?”
I turned slowly, exhaling. “Cal. Where the hell were you?”
Calvin Autry tried to laugh. “I was outside, down by the lake. I drunk that bottle there and went down to the lake to think. I guess I musta passed out, and when I come to I heard somebody up here breaking into my place. Damn, Micah, I could’ve shot you.” He lowered the pistol. His hair was uncombed and his clothes were disheveled. When he talked his words slid out on fumes of whiskey.
“What are you doing out here, Cal?”
“What?” He swayed a little. “I could ask you the same thing. Fact is, I come over here to get away and think. This is where I always come to think. And since I ain’t gonna have it much longer, I was taking advantage. How the fuck did you know I was out here, anyhow?”
“I just figured it,” I said. “You weren’t at your house, so it seemed a good bet.”
He nodded like it made perfect sense, but his mind, slowed by the liquor, was busy trying to make the connections. Finally the gears meshed and he licked his lips.
“What was you going to my house for at this time of night?”
I tried to think of a way to break it to him gently, but there wasn’t any good way to say it. “There’s been trouble, Cal. That boy, Arthur Augustine? They found him dead.”
He blinked and then cocked his head to one side. “Dead? the one that accused me?”
“That one. Somebody beat his head in and dumped him on the levee at Algiers.”
Cal exhaled heavily. “Shee-it.” His mind made another connection then, and his mouth dropped open. “Christ, they don’t think I …?”
“Whoever did it was driving a van.”
“A van? So what? Half the goddamn world drives vans. Did they get the license number?”
“No, it was too dark.”
“So they got nothing.”
“Maybe. But they were searching your house when I went there. It’s pretty sure you’ll be a suspect. If you’ve got an alibi, though …”
“Alibi? For when?”
“Between about four and ten, I’d say.”
He laid the pistol on the counter, turning suddenly to stagger to the back door. I heard him retching outside. I picked up the pistol. It was a Ruger Single Six, .22 caliber, mid-fifties vintage, before they added the nylock screws. A westerner’s weapon, the kind of gun I’d have associated with Cal Autry; the kind, I tried to convince myself, he’d have used if he really had planned to kill the boy. I unloaded the cylinder, pocketed the five rounds that came out, and stuck the revolver in my belt
From outside I heard Cal give a final, weak heave. He came unsteadily back through the door.
“Oh, shit.” He sighed. “You reckon they’ll come here?”
“Sooner or later,” I said softly. “Best thing would be for you to go to them first.”
“Fuckers,” he spat, suddenly defiant. “Why the hell should I? I didn’t do nothing.”
“Do you have an alibi?” I asked.
He turned slowly to look at me through red-rimmed eyes. “Hell no, man. I closed up right after you left and I come up here. Wasn’t nobody home at that house up at the head of the road, so they didn’t see me pass. I been down here ever since. Damn, do I have to have a fucking picture or something? Jesus, this is America, ain’t it?”
“This is America,” I said.
“Yeah.” He turned around suddenly and barged into me. I stepped back. “Shit, I might as well finish what I started.” He reached into one of the cabinets and took out a full bottle. I started to say something but decided against it.
“Come on,” he said, jer
king his head toward the door. I followed him back out into the night, a few steps behind his weaving form. The light from the kitchen splashed a dull glow on the grass, and ahead I could just see the placid surface of the water. He slid down with his back against a pine tree and opened the bottle. I sat down across from him and waited.
“Here.” He passed the bottle to me, and I took a mouthful and handed it back. The liquor burned my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and I closed my eyes.
“So you found anything yet?” he asked after he’d taken a long pull.
I told him about my visits to Frazier and Villiere and my talk with Guidry.
He snorted. “Any one of ’em could’ve done it.”
“But to have killed the boy?” I asked. “Why?”
“Shit, man, why do any of it? People’ll do things when they put their mind to it. A man that’s mean in his gut’ll be mean in business, in his private life, and to strangers.”
I took another swig. “Cal, they’re going to try to claim you lured the boy with magic tricks. That you knew him before, when he worked at your house.”
“Let ’em claim what they want. Maybe I did know him. Hell, I don’t keep track. I like kids. I was a scoutmaster once, before I came to this goddamn place. Is every scoutmaster a child molester?”
I stared out at the lake. “Cal, you’ve got to promise me you’ll go back.”
“You mean, let ’em lock me up?”
“If there’s no better evidence than they have now, we’ll get you out. John O’Rourke’s a good lawyer. They can’t hold you without giving you a chance to make bail.”
“And then my name’ll be splashed all over the fucking Picayune and on the six o’clock news.”
I reached for the bottle. “Cal, your name’s going to be in the news now no matter what.” There was a long silence. I heard a plop as he threw a stick into the water.
“Shit, Micah, what am I going to do? I can sell this place; I’ve had offers. But if I have to pay for a long trial, I’ll lose my house and everything.”
I didn’t know what to say. For a while the only sound was the frogs.
“Right out there,” he said, getting up on shaky legs and pointing. “That’s where my pier was going to go, and the boathouse. My neighbor and me was going to put it in. I was going to bring out the grandkids. I told ’em their grandmother’s dead. They believe it. They like to come up here. Water’s deeper on this side, and there’s some big fish in there.”
I forced myself to stand and look him in the eye. “Cal, why did Marie run away?” I asked.
“What?” He blinked and looked away.
“Was it another man? Were you two having problems?” There was another question I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t have the nerve.
“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything. They’re going to make it sound like you had some kind of sexual hang-up that made her leave you.”
“Oh Christ,” he spat. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I’m not. They’ll do everything they can to find her, too, and get her testimony. Do you have any idea where she is?”
He kicked at the ground. “West Coast, I reckon. That’s where the postcard was from. But if she’s in hell it ain’t hot enough.” He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Damn it, Micah, I was good to that woman. There was no cause for her to make a fool out of me the way she done. Yeah, we fought sometimes, but everybody fights. You mean they have to rake all that up?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, it ain’t right.” He spat. “Hell, the bitch even took my car.
“Is there anything you can think of that might have made her do it? Some argument you had just before it happened, say?”
“Well …” He was looking into the past, and I could see that I’d scored.
“What was it about?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Money. I never had enough for her. I …” His voice trailed off, and he drank from the bottle. Then he turned and looked me in the eye.
“Hold on, Micah. Are you telling me you believe what they’re saying?”
I swallowed. Somehow I’d known it would come to this. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what they’re going to claim.”
“I ain’t talking about what they claim.” His voice was angry now. “So don’t bullshit me. I’m asking you man to man, friend to friend: do you believe I had anything to do with this?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “No, Cal. I don’t.” The words sounded hollow to me, but they seemed to mollify him.
“ ’Cause I didn’t,” he said.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Promise me you’ll come with me tomorrow to O’Rourke’s office and let him call the police.”
“Oh, man.” He shook his head and took another swig. “Yeah, okay. If you think I ought to.”
“I do.”
He sighed. “Okay. But that’s tomorrow. Lemme just set here for tonight and look at the lake. I ain’t gonna see it again for a long time.”
“Sure,” I agreed, and accepted the bottle. I’d been keeping my intake down, but even the few mouthfuls had made me warm inside and had given me a light-headed feeling. What the hell, I thought. I hadn’t done such a great job for Cal up to now. The least I could do was have a few swallows with him on his last night of freedom.
Sometime before dawn he passed out against the tree, and I went inside, got a blanket from one of the beds, and threw it over him. Then I went back inside and lay down on the bunk and dozed off.
When I awoke the sun was coming through the windows. I forced myself up and stumbled groggily out to where I’d left him.
The blanket was still there, but Cal was gone. When I looked in the drive, his van was missing too.
Six
There was a scrawled note on my front seat: Sorry, Micah, but I couldnt let them arrest me like a killer. Ill pay you whatever I owe you after I get rid of this place meanwhile Im going hide out til you or somebody can prove I didnt do nothing they accuse me of. His full name was signed underneath with a flourish, Calvin Russell Autry, Jr, and at the bottom was the postscript You was sleeping so I didnt want to wake you. I took my sixshooter from out of your belt.
I swore under my breath. There wasn’t anything to do now but get back to the city. I picked up the empty bottle from outside and made up the bunk. Then I stood behind the cabin for a long minute, staring at the quiet lake. A terrible notion crept into my mind. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away: I wondered if he’d ever brought boys up here.
Then I flashed on his face as it had been last night, half indignant, half terrified as he swore to his innocence.
I turned my back on the lake and drove away, down the gravel road and away from the unanswered questions.
As I reached the highway a sheriffs cruiser turned in and headed in the direction from which I’d come. Good thing I hadn’t lingered; I didn’t need any complications at this point.
I headed east through Madisonville and Chinchuba, instead of back the way I’d come, taking the Pontchartrain Causeway south for twenty miles over the gray, roiling waters of the lake. In the distance I could make out the buildings of the city, hovering in a pall of smog. Below, occasional boats bobbed and twisted on the waves, and I wished I were out yachting. It had been a hobby before my injury, and I still do it occasionally. But mostly I collect the pictures of famous yachts, the way some people collect stamps. Suddenly I had a passionate desire to go home, immerse myself in my album, and forget about Cal Autry and his problem. He’d had his chance, hadn’t he? I’d done what I could and he’d broken his promise. What more did I owe him?
And then his words came back to me: Jesus, this is America, ain’t it?
It was nearly eleven when I got back to my office. I snuck up the rear stairs, avoiding LaVelle, who was occupied with some tourists, and locked myself into my apartment without checking my answering machine. I showered, brushed my teeth, and downed half a qu
art of milk. Then I dressed and went into my office.
The red eye of my answering machine told me I had been missed.
The first message was from Katherine. She’d expected me last night and hoped everything was all right; there was no hysteria in her voice, because she was accustomed to the kind of work I did and knew that if I hadn’t called I was probably following some lead. But she’d feel better if I touched base as soon as possible.
The second message was from a man named Burris, who identified himself as an insurance executive; maybe he was just trying to sell me a policy, but there was also a good chance he wanted me to find somebody who’d gotten killed locally after insuring himself for big bucks. I wrote down his name and number.
The final message was from Mancuso: “Micah, where the hell are you? Gimme a call when you get back, okay? And look … Oh, never mind.”
I called Katherine first, got her own machine, and left a message that I was back. Then I called Mancuso. After a two-minute wait he came on the line, his voice anxious.
“Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Working,” I said. “I don’t get paid by the city, remember?”
“Real funny. Look, they know you were at Autry’s house last night, and now your buddy’s missing. Damn it, Micah, if you’ve been screwing with Fox’s case he’s going to do what he said.”
“Relax,” I said. “You didn’t call me just to tell me that, did you?”
“No, I didn’t, matter of fact.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to pass along something, but you don’t let on where you got it.”
“Agreed.” I could tell from the tone of his voice it wasn’t something I wanted to hear.
“They turned Autry’s house inside out, okay?” The sick feeling started to radiate out from my stomach. “It was behind the house, in his garage, what they found.”
“Which was?”
Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries) Page 6
