The Conan Flagg Mysteries: Bundle #3

by M. K. Wren

  The focus of attention was Gabe Benbow’s Continental. Two of its side windows were shattered, but all the Benbows seemed to be present and accounted for, and Gabe was already bellowing demands for police protection at a red-faced Kleber. Conan didn’t envy the chief, but neither did he stay to assist him; Kleber could manage.

  Kit and Melissa piled into the back seat of the Vanagon, and Conan wondered if he weren’t underestimating their resiliency; they both seemed stimulated, more than frightened, by all the excitement. Diane got in the front seat, and when Conan started the motor, she leaned toward him, keeping her voice down so that the children couldn’t hear. “It was Lyn, wasn’t it?” Then when Conan didn’t immediately respond, “He was shooting at the Benbows, Conan. Or probably just Gabe. They were all right there by his car when the shots started.”

  Conan drove down the road in second gear, in no great hurry now and mindful of the police cars that would soon be barreling toward the cemetery. Then he smiled, and the smile erupted into a laugh.

  “Conan, what’s so funny?” Diane asked irritably.

  “I was just thinking about all the Benbows hitting the dirt at once. All of them in their funereal best.”

  After a moment, she was laughing too. “Well, as Gabe would say, ‘Who so diggeth a pit shall fall therein.’”

  “At least this might provide the change in emotional climate I was hoping for. Gabe might be thinking seriously about the wages of sin now.”

  Diane’s smile faded. “What are you going to do, Conan?”

  “Just talk to him, Di. Don’t worry.”

  “What about Lyn?”

  Conan braked at a stop sign, then turned left onto Foothills Boulevard Road. “There’s not much I can do about Lyn until he decides to come out of the woods. I just hope Kleber doesn’t bring him out forcibly. Are you going back to Dundee after the hearing?”

  She glanced into the back seat. “Yes. I think a few more days with Mom and Dad will be good for the kids. And me. Conan, we haven’t had a chance to talk about—well, about your investigation.”

  “Call me this evening when you’re free to talk for a while. Anytime before…oh, about midnight.”

  “Do you turn into a pumpkin then?”

  He laughed. “The less you know about my nocturnal metamorphoses, the better.”

  *

  Conan managed to stay out of reach of a telephone for most of the remainder of the afternoon by the expedient of having a long, leisurely lunch at the Surf House, where he could watch the breakers at high tide. He might have whiled away the time with a walk on the beach, but on this afternoon there was no beach; it was submerged under roiling cascades of white water. There was no rain yet, and this storm was not following the usual scenario, which in itself was ominous. Gulls milled restlessly, spiraling ever higher until they were only tiny gray dots against the gray sky.

  Finally, at four o’clock, he returned to his house, where he only had time to put on a pot of coffee before the phone rang. He took the call on the kitchen phone; it was Chief Earl Kleber.

  “Where the hell have you been, Flagg?”

  Conan smiled faintly. “Out to lunch, Chief. Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two hours. You sure pulled a fast disappearing act at the cemetery.”

  “I had Diane and the kids with me, and it seemed like a good idea to get them out of there. What happened, anyway? Some poacher mistake Gabe’s Continental for a deer?”

  Kleber replied irritably, “I don’t know who did the shooting. We had twenty men from the sheriff s office, the State Patrol, and our department out in those woods. Turned up zilch.”

  “Did any of the Benbows sustain any damage—other than racking up a big cleaning bill?”

  “This isn’t funny, damn it! No, nobody was hurt. What I want to know from you is, where the hell is Lyndon Hatch?”

  Conan put a cast of surprise in his tone. “Lyn Hatch? Chief, I told you I have no idea where he is. Why all this interest in Lyn?”

  “Don’t pull that innocent act on me. He was seen yesterday out in the woods with a rifle, and he never made a secret of how much he hates Gabe Benbow’s guts.”

  “Is that according to Gabe Benbow? Chief, Lyn is a field representative for The Earth Conservancy, and he also has a tendency to say exactly what he thinks. So, I leave it to you to guess how Gabe feels about him.”

  “Maybe. But what in God’s name was he doing out in the woods? Answer me that!”

  “I can’t, except to say that Lyn has spent most of his life outdoors. Maybe it’s therapy for him.”

  A long pause, then, “He was engaged to Corey, wasn’t he?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Is that from Gabe too?”

  “Yeah. Oh, hell, I don’t need all this hassle. Now I’m a man short because Gabe hollered so loud about police protection. And Giff Wills—he had Gabe convinced the sheriff’s department’s so short-handed they can’t spare even a stenographer, so it got dumped in my lap.”

  Conan’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose nothing less than round-the-clock bodyguards will satisfy Gabe.”

  “Sure. All courtesy of the taxpayers of Holliday Beach. Conan, if you do happen to hear from Hatch…”

  “I’ll tell him you’re worried about him.”

  When Conan hung up, he went to the windows. Beyond the pall of cloud, the sun had not yet set, but little of its light penetrated the gray veils. He felt none of the exhilaration with which he usually regarded the approach of a major storm. He was thinking about Lyn Hatch and Earl Kleber; of revenge and the law. And justice. Justice had somehow gotten lost between the two.

  Chapter 15

  At midnight, Conan reached the metal gate marking Gabe Benbow’s property line. It was, as he anticipated, closed and padlocked. He parked the XK-E on the narrow shoulder of the road.

  It wasn’t the padlock on the gate that induced him to leave the car here; he’d opened it before sans key, and he had the necessary tools with him. In fact, he was the quintessential cat burglar tonight, his clothing all black, including the skin-thin leather gloves and the knit cap that doubled as a ski mask when he pulled it down over his face. He wore a wool jacket that didn’t rustle with his movements, and in one pocket, he carried his special tool case and a pencil flash; in the other, a Mauser 9 mm semiautomatic.

  He chose to leave the car here because he knew Gabe’s house to be occupied, not only by Gabe and his prodigal son, but by his reluctantly provided police guard. The car lights, if observed, would betray his approach, and on this black night, driving without them would be impossible. At any rate, it was only a quarter of a mile to the house.

  Conan vaulted the fence, and with the pencil flash as his only light, set off down the road at an easy trot. Above him, scudding clouds thinned occasionally to reveal a dim glow where the full moon should be. He felt now the exhilaration he had missed earlier as he crested the highest point of the road and began the descent toward Shearwater Spit. Here nothing shielded him from the wind or the pervading roar of the breakers. The air had a dry crackle to it and a scent he couldn’t separate from pine and earth that enhanced them without revealing itself. The wind gusted hard out of the west, oddly warm and caressing.

  The only light in the Benbow house was in the northwest-facing windows of the living room, and he didn’t see it until he reached the parking area. He sprinted across the lawn to the deck, then pulled the ski mask over his face, staying close to the wall as he moved toward the windows. The drapes were partially open. When he finally took a cautious look into the room, he smiled.

  Gabe’s recliner was occupied, but not by its owner. Sergeant Billy Todd, youngest officer in the HBPD, and a native son. He was engrossed in a book, and Conan recognized the brown-paper jacket Miss Dobie put on all new rental books at the Holliday Beach Book Shop. Billy Todd had been a faithful bookshop customer since he was twelve years old.

  Conan retreated off the deck and made his way around the back of the house to the
east wing. He didn’t know where Jonas was domiciled, but he did know the location of the master bedroom, and that was his objective. Two large, aluminum-framed windows met at the northeast corner, and the one on the north had a sliding panel; it was open a few inches. The screen was locked, but Conan jimmied it out of its frame in a few seconds. Apparently, Gabe considered the screen lock security enough; there was no rod in the track to stop the window from opening all the way. Conan boosted himself onto the sill, then dropped behind the curtains. Over the distant surf roar, he heard a sonorous snoring.

  He extricated himself from the curtains and saw a night-light illuminating the bathroom to his right. Across the room from him, the door into the hall was open, a dim light reaching it from the living room. It was a long hallway, Conan knew; at least thirty feet. To his left he saw a semi-colonial bedstead, and that was the site of the snoring. The light from the hall fell softly on Gabe’s craggy profile and open mouth, lips sunken over dentureless gums. If he suffered any qualms of conscience, it didn’t affect his sleep.

  Conan crossed silently to the door, listened for sounds of movement from the living room before he eased it closed, then went to the bed and felt for the switch on the lamp mounted on the headboard.

  Gabe awoke with a glaring light in his eyes, a masked figure looming over him, a gloved hand covering his mouth, and a gun only inches from his forehead. His muffled cry turned into a wheezing gasp.

  Conan said softly, “Behave yourself, Gabe, or by God I’ll blow a hole in that incredibly hard head of yours.”

  Gabe’s pale eyes were wide and glazed, and Conan had to admit that there was some satisfaction in the naked terror reflected in them. He took his hand away from Gabe’s mouth slowly, and when no cries for help resulted, pulled off his mask-cap and thrust it in his jacket pocket.

  Gabe croaked huskily, “Flagg! Why you goddamned—”

  “Taking the name of the Lord in vain?” Then Conan pressed the barrel of the gun hard against the old man’s temple. “Don’t kid yourself, Gabe. I’m perfectly willing to kill you, especially after attending Corey’s funeral today. And I’d get away with it. The graveyard sniper strikes again, and no one would even know I was here.”

  “I got—there’s a policeman out in the living room! All I have to do is—”

  “What makes you think Billy is still there to hear you?”

  Gabe seemed to sink into himself with that, breath rattling, arthritic hands clutching the bedcovers under his chin like a frightened, grotesque child.

  Conan sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping the gun close to Gabe’s face. “I want to know what happened here Friday night, Gabe—the night Corey was murdered.”

  A hoarse whisper: “Murdered! No, she wasn’t—it was a—a fit. Epilepsy! That’s it, she had—”

  “No, she didn’t. That was just a little invention of mine. Corey was in perfect health. Now, begin at the beginning, when Corey arrived. What time was that?”

  Gabe’s lips worked aimlessly over toothless gums, then his eyes rolled toward the gun, and he began to make words of the incoherent sounds. “She…she came about eight-thirty, I think.”

  “And what happened, Gabe?”

  “Well, at first we—all of us just…talked, you know, then she brought out that—” His fear momentarily gave way to remembered anger. “—that goddamned diary of Kate’s!”

  “You forgot something, Gabe: the first black russian.”

  “Oh…” His head went up and down in anxious affirmation. “France made it. When Corey first came. Then after she read the diary, that stupid woman threw it in her face. France, I mean. She threw—”

  “I know, Gabe. Get on with it!”

  Gabe’s fingers twitched crablike on the sheets. “Well, then Corey went into the bathroom to clean up—”

  “Where was everyone seated before this interruption?”

  “I—I think…well, I was in my armchair, and on the couch to my right, it was France, then Moses, then Nina. Jonas was next to me on the other couch, then Corey, and then…Leo. Damn it, can’t I even get my teeth?”

  Conan smiled coldly. “You’re doing fine without them, Gabe. What happened after Corey retired to the bathroom?”

  Gabe’s tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip. “That’s when Moses took France out to the kitchen. Nina and Leo and me, we talked—tried to figure out what to do.”

  “Where was Jonas?”

  “What? Well, he was—I guess he got up to see what Moses and France were doing.”

  “Did he go into the kitchen?”

  “I—I don’t know. He came back and sat down before Corey—wait a minute. Nina went to the kitchen too, then after a while, France and Moses came out, then Nina. She brought drinks. One for France and another for Corey.”

  “Where did she put Corey’s drink?”

  He assayed a shrug. “I guess…yes, right in front of where Corey was sitting. On the coffee table.”

  “And everyone was back in their original positions, with Leo and Jonas on either side of Corey? Were they drinking? Where were their glasses?”

  “Damn it, I don’t—on the table, I think.”

  “Near Corey’s glass?” Then when Gabe nodded silently, “What about Leo? Did he remain seated all this time?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t see him move.”

  Conan leaned closer. “And you, Gabe? Did you move?”

  “No!” He tried to draw away from Conan, head pressing deeper into the pillow. “I didn’t get out of my chair once!”

  “When Corey returned, what happened?”

  “We…we talked for a while. Tried to figure out some way around—I mean, something—”

  “Did Corey drink any of that second black russian?”

  “I can’t remember—wait. Yes. She said something about how she hoped we could come to a peaceful agreement. And Jonas picked up his glass and said, ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Damn fool! And he will be damned, eternally damned, if—”

  Conan shifted the barrel of the gun until it was only an inch from Gabe’s left eye. “Don’t start preaching, Gabe—not you! Did Corey join in Jonas’s toast?”

  “Yes. I know she drank some then and probably later on. We talked for—it seemed like a long time. And then…then Corey, she kind of choked up. Said she couldn’t breathe and her mouth and throat felt numb.”

  “Numb? That was the word she used?”

  “I think so. Then she started shaking all over, and Jonas caught her before she fell over on the table. We got the table out of the way, and she just kept on shaking and jerking.…” Gabe was all but panting now, but he hesitated, eyes shifting past the gun to Conan’s face. “Then she…well, she stopped shaking, and in a few minutes, she sat up and said she was all right again and—ahhh!”

  That strangled cry came as Conan pulled him upright by his pajamas collar. “I’ve heard that story, Gabe, and I still don’t believe it! The truth! I want the truth!”

  Gabe husked, “Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you—I’ll…tell you the truth.” When Conan loosened his grip on his collar, he sagged back limply. “She—she did stop shaking, but…”

  “But what, Gabe?”

  “She stopped breathing. Jonas tried to find a pulse. At first, he said he could feel something, then Nina—she said she had CPR training. She and Jonas…” Gabe’s eyes squeezed shut. “As the Lord is my witness, they tried.”

  Conan’s breath came out in a long, aching sigh. “But she was dead.”

  Gabe nodded. “But it wasn’t—nobody killed her! She died of—of natural causes! I swear it—that’s the truth!”

  Conan hissed, “Natural causes? Do you expect me to believe that? Do you believe it? You ignorant, arrogant bastard!” His finger tightened on the trigger. But after a moment, he drew away from Gabe. A good thing, perhaps, that this gun was not the lethal instrument it seemed right now.

  “All right, Gabe, let’s have the rest of the story.”

  Gabe swallowed audibly. “Well, Leo said
we couldn’t call the police. I mean, if anybody found out he was here—well, we figured it’d just be easier if, I mean since she…since I thought she died of natural causes, we figured she could just as well have died…someplace else.”

  “Like at the bottom of Sitka Bay? So, you took her body and car to the curve above Reem’s Rocks, put her behind the steering wheel, and pushed the car down the hill.” Gabe only nodded. “Did all of you take part in that?”

  “Yes. All of us.”

  For a while, the only sounds were Gabe’s strained breathing and the roar of the ocean. Then Conan asked, “Why are you suing for custody of Kit? Why in the name of anything reasonable or just do you want to take Kit away from Diane?”

  There was life—and cantankerous defiance—in the old man yet. He replied hotly, “The boy’s a Benbow! It’s not right for him to be raised by strangers!”

  Conan was nearly awestruck by that, and he almost missed the warning creak outside the door. A second later, the door banged open, and Sergeant Billy Todd loomed within the frame, his .38 police special extended in a two-handed grip.

  “Freeze!”

  Conan didn’t quite freeze, but held his hands away from his body, the Mauser suspended by one finger through the trigger guard.

  Todd’s jaw dropped. “Conan?”

  “Himself,” Conan admitted, rising.

  Gabe jerked upright, blinking like a flannel-pajamaed Lazarus. “Billy! He told me you—goddamn it, Flagg! Billy, you arrest that man! He tried to kill me!”

  Sergeant Todd holstered his gun as he crossed to take Conan’s. He checked it, frowning. “Where’s the clip?”

  Conan smiled. “Well, I must’ve left it at home.”

  “Billy, didn’t you hear me?” Gabe threw back the blankets and surged out of bed. “That man tried to kill me!”

  Todd gazed blankly at Gabe—thin hair flying, toothless gums making mush of his consonants. “Gabe,” Todd said, holding up the Mauser, “Conan wasn’t about to kill anybody with this. No clip. No bullets.”

  “I didn’t know that! He threatened me—”