by Sarah Shaber
Simon looked at the page of the gun catalog. He was positive that a derringer identical to the one illustrated had belonged to Charles Bloodworth. Simon wondered if a ballistics test could be performed on Bloodworth's gun and a bullet that had been in a corpse for seventy years.
As his head cleared and his heart rate slowed down, Simon studied the page. He looked up some other derringers. They did look a lot alike. The original Deringer pocket pistol had been wildly popular and was copied by every gun manufacturer who could think of a way to get around the patent. Simon didn't know anything about guns. He could not be sure that Bloodworth's gun was a Remington, or that it was any model that took a .41. And the caliber was all he knew about that bullet. Finding out was the most important thing in his life, more important even than making sure he was home when Julia came back.
Simon had never defaced a library book in his life, but now he had an overwhelming urge to tear the page illustrating the Remington derringer out of the book and take it right over to Bloodworth House to compare with the real thing. The only thing that stopped him from doing it was the vigilance of the librarian, who kept looking at him in case he fainted. Simon wrestled with the closest copy machine until it gave him a decent copy of the page, then dutifully handed the book to the librarian. He folded the copy and put it in his pocket. When he walked out of the library, he didn't pay any attention to Bobby Hinton sitting and reading his magazines. Just then, Simon was preoccupied with the crimes of the past.
Simon walked across the lawn of the college toward Bloodworth House. The grass under his feet had been cut that day, and it gave off that unmistakable odor of new-mown hay. The tiny insects that lived in the grass had been disturbed by the mowing, and they swarmed around Simon's ankles as he walked quickly toward the house. It was very dark on the campus, except for one light that burned on the back porch of Bloodworth House.
Simon reached the back door, which led into the office, and fumbled for his keys. He found the right one, then opened the door and flicked on the light switch. A bank of overhead fluorescent lights came on, lighting the office like a jewelry store. Simon walked through and into the dining room, where the display case holding selected items that had belonged to Charles and Adam Bloodworth stood.
The lighting here was less invasive, and Simon peered into the case. There was the derringer. He compared it with the drawing in his hand. It was definitely a Remington. The case was locked, but Simon had the key. He opened the case and removed the gun. It was very small. The two pudgy .41-caliber over/under barrels were massively out of proportion to the rest of the gun. At close range, the bullets would definitely kill a person. At any other range, God knows where they would end up.
Simon inspected it closely. Under the grip, the initials C.B., for Charles Bloodworth, had been scratched. On the side rib, the firearm was stamped Remington Arms Co., which placed its manufacture from 1910 to 1935.
Simon had used a paper towel from the sink in the office to pick up the gun, and now he stood hesitating. He desperately wanted to take the gun home, to show it to Julia, and then tomorrow to take it downtown to show Otis Gates and find out if a ballistics check should be run on it. It wasn't dangerous. They had removed the firing pin before putting it on display. But Simon knew it would interrupt the chain of evidence if he removed the gun. It was a stupid worry, since the murderer was dead and there would never be a trial, but he didn't want anyone to be able to question where he had found the gun and in what condition he had found it. So he put the derringer back in the case and locked it. He slumped a little bit, leaning on the case as the adrenaline leaked out of him. He almost wished he didn't know who had murdered Anne Bloodworth.
"Get away from there," Bobby Hinton said. "That's not your property." The kid was lounging in the doorway, scowling at Simon. He must have followed Simon from the library. Every trace of syncophancy was gone from his expression. He looked mean.
"I have a perfect right to be here," Simon said. "I'm on the board of directors and I have a set of keys. Which is more than I can say for you. This is not your property, either." "It's more mine than yours," Hinton said. He raised his right arm, which held a .38 Colt Special, and pointed it right at Simon. Simon suspected that the firing pin had not been removed from this weapon. His adrenaline began to flow again.
"What do you think you're doing?" Simon said. "Give me that thing." "You are such an asshole. I've been wanting to do this for a month—ever since you started screwing up my life." Simon was silent for a few seconds. How could anyone want to kill someone because of a grade? There was serious mental illness at work here. And this seriously mentally ill person was holding a gun on him.
"Listen," Simon said, "if it's that C you're worried about, we can deal with that. We can look at the whole issue again. It's not worth somebody's life—mine or yours. You'll go to prison if you hurt me."
"You idiot. You think this is all about a damn grade! This is about a couple million bucks!"
"I don't understand." "That's what my family will lose if you prove Adam Bloodworth killed his cousin. If you think I'm giving up all that money over some stupid chick who died seventy years ago, you're crazy."
Simon ransacked his mental filing cabinet, and the note cards fell into place. Bobby's family had inherited money, and lots of it, because Anne Bloodworth died and the Bloodworth fortune went to Adam.
"You want to kill me because you think your family would lose the Bloodworth money if I prove Adam Bloodworth killed Anne? You booby-trapped my car, and when that didn't work, you tried to poison me?"
"Dr. Andrus booby-trapped your car. It gave me the idea," Bobby said. "I figured if you took an overdose it would solve all my problems. Even back in 1926 a murderer couldn't inherit from his victim. If you prove Adam murdered Anne, we could lose the estate. I'm not going to let that happen."
"I think it's more complicated than that, Bobby," Simon said. "Besides, I know Adam didn't do it. I cleared him the other day. He had an alibi."
"Sure. You figured out where one guy was on a night seventy years ago. Do you expect me to believe that?"
"The police know someone was in my house," Simon said. "They know I didn't try to commit suicide."
"They've got nothing," Bobby said. "Nothing at all. Especially after you succeed this time, they'll change their minds. Get outside."
"What are you going to do?"
"Just move. I don't want to have to shoot you. I'll have a lot more to cover up if I do, but I will if I have to."
Simon walked back through the office and outside. Bobby flicked off the outside porch light.
"Go over toward the excavation," he said. Simon went, picking his way over stakes and mounds of dirt. Without the porch light, he walked into darkness just a few feet from the house. Bobby followed him so closely that Simon could almost feel the barrel of the revolver between his shoulder blades. Simon's brain was working as fast as it ever had in his life, but he wasn't coming up with any solutions.
"Stop," Bobby said.
"What are you going to do?" Simon asked.
Bobby laughed. "Don't worry. Before too long, you won't be able to tell anyone the solution to your little mystery."
"I know Adam didn't kill Anne," Simon said. "I know it for sure. Her maid is still alive. She said he was at a local whorehouse with a lot of other people. He's in the clear." "You're very inventive under stress." "Killing me would be a big mistake," Simon said. "You'll spend the rest of your life in prison. You won't be able to spend your money on anything other than cigarettes and candy bars at the prison store."
"I'm not going to get caught."
"Everybody gets caught. Stop this now, and maybe you'll get off with probation and counseling." "I won't get caught, because you've tried to kill yourself twice already. This time, you'll succeed." Bobby waved his gun toward a pile of tools to Simon's left. "Get a crowbar out of there," he said, "and don't get any ideas about using it on me. I'm twice as big as you are and I've got a gun."
&nb
sp; Simon picked up the crowbar. It could be a powerful weapon, but Simon knew he couldn't get close enough to Bobby to use it before the gun fired.
"Now pry off that grid," Bobby said. He was pointing to the safety cover that covered the cistern David had found.
Suddenly, Simon was really frightened. His bowels threatened to move and his legs turned to the proverbial rubber. How deep had David said the water was in that cistern? "I don't think I can," Simon said, stalling for time.
"Bullshit," Bobby said. "If you don't, I'll shoot you and stuff you down it myself."
Simon took the crowbar and easily, too easily, pried the grate off the hole. He looked down into it. He saw a narrow opening, lined with stone, wide enough for a man. A distant shimmer indicated that the cistern was full of water. How deep was it? Very deep, if the underground springs and the storm drains of the neighborhood fed it, the way David speculated that they did.
"Get in," Bobby said.
"Look," Simon said.
"Get in," the kid said. He raised the gun to his eye level and pointed it at Simon. "If you don't, I'll kill you and think of another way to cover it up."
Even if you can't, I'll be dead, Simon thought. At least this way, I might have a chance. Simon sat on the edge of the cistern and slowly lowered his body into the hole. The stones were worn and damp and slick with moss. He looked into the darkness below him and wondered how many other animals had drowned in it during the past hundred years or so. Halfway in, he hesitated, leaning the upper part of his body over the edge and holding on to a tree root nearby.
"Listen to me," he said.
The kid picked up the crowbar and swung it at Simon's head. Simon ducked, then dropped into the well. The narrow walls fell away quickly and Simon felt, rather than saw, the sides of the cistern widen before he hit the water. It was very cold, and he did not hit very gracefully. He had reached his hands out in an automatic search for something to hold on to and his mouth was open in a scream. He hit the water flailing and his face went under. He had to spit out filthy water when he surfaced.
Simon remembered getting his Red Cross lifesaving certificate when he was sixteen. He'd had to tread water for fifteen minutes. It had seemed like forever to him. By the time the instructor had called time, his lungs were heaving, his legs were exhausted, and he no longer gave a damn whether he got the job at the faculty club that summer. He was a kid then. How long could he last now? Fifteen minutes was no time at all. It was late at night on a deserted campus. There was no way anyone would find him. If he screamed, the sound would be dissipated by the well and the earth and would lose itself in the other noises of the night.
He held his breath and forced his body down into the cistern until he stood on his tiptoes on the bottom. As he had already guessed, the water was several inches over his head.
He paddled over to the wall of the cistern. He guessed that the circumference was about four times the width of the opening above. He slowly circled it, feeling carefully with his hands and feet for something to hold on to. Nothing. He dived to the bottom and felt along the edge, where the stone walls met dirt. He was looking for a channel of some kind. He found several gaps in the stone, but none large enough for him to squeeze through. Even if he could, he would probably drown before he got to the first storm drain. The nearest grate on campus he could think of was many yards away.
The bottom of the cistern was full of sludge and objects that Simon couldn't identify when he touched them. He went back up to the surface of the well. He plastered his body up against the stone wall, hoping friction would help keep him afloat. He looked up at the cistern opening above him. He could see a few stars and hear night noises, but no people. He wondered if he should start screaming, but he decided not to unless he heard voices. It would just exhaust him.
Simon figured he was going to die. He tried to think, but his blood supply seemed concentrated in his extremities, where his muscles were fighting to tread water and to cling to a few bumps in the stone wall of the cistern. Fear consumed him for a minute and he lost the contents of his bowels and his bladder. Then his head cleared and he began to think again. He was getting cramps in his legs, so he rested them by floating on the surface of the water, using his arms to stay afloat. The cistern was too wide here for him to brace himself against the opposite wall, and he couldn't climb into the narrower opening above him. There was no way out, no way he could survive. That stupid kid had killed him.
As he floated, Simon wondered if he could write a message before he died. He wanted to tell Otis Gates who had killed him, and tell the world who had killed Anne Bloodworth. But in his rush to leave the library, he had left his notepad and pen behind. It was a stupid idea anyway. Odds were that his body would never be found.
Simon was exhausted. He felt himself sinking into the water, and when water covered his face, he struggled to the surface again. His legs and arms were so heavy that he could no longer move them. He sank again, holding his breath.
Simon had no comforting out-of-body experiences as he began to die. He saw no bright welcoming lights, heard no heavenly chorus, and saw no visions. His parents didn't beckon to him from some celestial shore to show him the way. Instead, cold, filthy
water filled his mouth and nose and trickled into his lungs. His brain signaled his arms and legs to propel him upward one last time, but they refused. The most primitive part of his brain screamed out in protest as his body extended itself along the bottom of the well.
The last thing Simon sensed was a disturbance in the water around him, then a sharp pain in his left forearm as someone stepped on him and cracked the bone. Two massive hands grasped Simon under the armpits and dragged him upward.
"Cough, damn it," Otis Gates said. Simon struggled as Gates pounded him on the back. He began to breathe painfully, then vomited over the policeman's back. With both feet planted firmly on the bottom of the well, and his head and shoulders well above water, Otis Gates held Simon over his shoulder like a toddler. Like a child, Simon clung to him with his legs and arms while he got used to breathing again.
"God, get me out of this place," Simon said.
"It'll be a few minutes before the fire department gets here with a block and tackle," Gates said. "It's okay, I've got you, and I've got nothing else better to do." Simon realized that he wasn't going to die and tears came to his eyes.
"What I want to know is, who the hell told you that you could leave your house tonight? Didn't I tell you to stay at home and with someone until I said different? I'm a policeman. You're supposed to do as I say."
"I thought it was all over," Simon said. "I thought Alex Andrus had confessed to everything."
"You can solve all the historical mysteries you want," Gates said, "but you let me deal with the present." "Her father did it," Simon said.
But Gates wasn't listening.
"Where is that block and tackle?" he was shouting up. "It's cold down here." "It's coming," a voice called back.
A leather harness on a rope dropped into the well. Gates strapped Simon into it. Then Simon heard the whine of a winch, and he was pulled upward into the warm night. David Morgan was there to help assorted firemen, paramedics, and police officers disengage him.
"Short people should stay away from deep wells," Morgan said.
"Archaeologists should put tighter covers on very dangerous old cisterns," Simon said. "I should sue. I'll probably need psychotherapy for life."
"What you need is a shower," Morgan said. "You stink." Gates was a tight fit in the narrow opening. Simon could hear him swearing as he was winched out of the cistern by a fire truck. Soon he was standing in front of Simon, dripping wet.
"I'll have you know," he said, "that this is the best suit money can buy at Derrick's Discount Big and Tall out on Airport Road. The color brought out the brown in my eyes."
"I'm sorry," Simon said. "You need to be real careful in your life from now on," Gates said. "You've used up all your luck tonight. When we broke Andrus and he confessed to
the first incident but we couldn't budge him on the second, I knew there was someone else involved in all this. And I knew it had something to do with this damn house and that girl's murder. It's the only thing in your life that is different from where you were a month ago. Then Julia remembered this conversation we had with the kid at the Bloodworth woman's funeral about inheritance. Then we called you and when you didn't answer, I went to your house and found the note you left for Julia. You are so damn lucky," Gates went on. "The librarian told me you had left just minutes before I got there. I ran into Morgan here outside the library. He saw the office lights on at the house, so we went that way. We ran into the Hinton kid running off with a crowbar in one hand and a gun in the other. We convinced him that it was in his best interests to tell us where you were. Or rather, Morgan here convinced him. I was concerned I'd violate his constitutional rights."
"Thank you," Simon said to both of them. "Thank you very much."
The paramedic, trying to insert an IV needle, handled Simon's left arm, and Simon hollered. "I think it's busted," Simon said. "My delivering angel here stepped on me." "I thought I felt something crack," Gates said. "Sorry."
"I am not complaining," Simon said. "Don't put that thing in me," he said to the paramedic, who was trying to insert an IV into his other arm. "I've had more than enough fluids tonight, thank you."
"All right," the medic said, "but you need to go on to the hospital. You want to get that arm set or it'll hurt like hell, and you should get a chest X ray. You might have aspirated something horrible down there."
"I'll do anything you say except stay in the hospital," Simon said. "I've spent enough time there recently"
"I thought you looked familiar," the medic said. "Kind of accident-prone, aren't you?" "Looking at me, I'm sure this will be hard for you to believe," Simon said, "but I have been the target of multiple murder attempts." "He's not kidding," Gates said. "This guy has been more trouble to me recently than all the dope pushers, bank robbers, and other assorted criminals I've arrested in the past year." He turned to Simon. "I'm going to radio Julia and tell her you're safe. Then I'm going to get cleaned up and follow you to the emergency room to take your statement. Don't move without letting me know where you are. Hear me? I want to get home before dawn."
