The Man in the Tree

by Damon Knight

  "No, I'm in."

  "Got a gun?"

  "Sure -- same old Police Special."

  "I don't mean that. A rifle -- what kind?"

  "Remington .30-30, sweet little scope. Last year, doe season, I got one right behind the ear at two hundred yards."

  "No good." A scope would just get in the way. Wait a minute." Cooley went out to his car and came back with a short-barreled rifle.

  "This here is an Enfield carbine, for jungle fighting. War surplus, I got it from a place in Corvallis four years ago. The ammo is .303 British, ten in the clip and one in the chamber. Plink some tin cans with it tomorrow, get used to the feel. Monday morning, I pick you up and we go. That a deal?"

  "Okay, Tom."

  They parked their cars on the country road, out of sight of the mailboxes, and went into the woods. Jerry had the carbine and his Police Special, "just in case," and Cooley was armed with his usual Colt .45. They followed the ridge down to the observation point Cooley had used before. Shortly after noon they saw the boy come down from the hillside. When he was out of sight, they crossed the valley and climbed the slope to the treehouse. Jerry clucked his tongue admiringly. "Imagine him doing that," he said.

  "It's just a damn treehouse, Jerry."

  "Sure, but way out here? Pretty slick kid."

  Cooley spat. "We've got about an hour before he gets back. Pick yourself a good spot right over there in the brush and just take it easy. No smoking, he might see it or smell it. Soon as he starts to climb the tree, you get a bead on him, but don't pull the trigger unless he starts down again. Chances are you won't have to do a thing."

  "You sure you want to do it this way? I mean, be's just a kid."

  "Jerry, that's the reason. Suppose I haul him in, what will the law do? They'll put him in the juvenile detention house for a year, maybe, and then he's walking around, and my kid is dead."

  Jerry nodded. "Guess I'd feel the same way."

  Cooley climbed the footholds, eased the door up and looked in. He saw wooden shelves, a canvas camp chair, a bucket. When he eased himself inside and let the door swing shut behind him, it was black dark. He turned on his flashlight. From the walls, painted figures looked back at him. They were angular, outlined in black paint and filled in with blue, red, and yellow; they looked more like Indian designs than what a kid would draw.

  Shirts and pants were piled on the shelves, cans of food, tools. There was a shelf of books, including catalogues from Sears and Montgomery Ward. Cooley looked at the titles. "Grimm's Fairy Tales." "Wild Life of the Pacific Northwest." "Camping and Woodcraft."

  On the broad shelf behind the camp chair there was a kerosene lamp, a half-finished wood carving, a stack of papers. Cooley picked up the top sheet and looked at it in the beam of the flashlight. It was an airletter with a foreign stamp, addressed to "J. Hawkins, Route 1, Dog City, Oregon, U.S.A." He turned it over. "Dear Pen Pal! I am well, how are you? Here in Lucerne the weather is fine. Soon I will to go on my vacation trip in Austria."

  Cooley put the letter down. He moved the camp chair to the side of the room, took out his revolver and pushed the safety off, turned off the flashlight and sat down to wait.

  Jerry was sitting behind a cluster of vine maple stems with his back against a tree and the Enfield in his lap. His butt was cold, and there was a rock or a root under him whichever way he shifted. He looked at his wristwatch; he had been here almost an hour.

  Brush crackled a few yards away, and when he looked up he saw the kid climbing the tree with some kind of parcel in his hand. Jerry rolled over to one knee and stood up, but a twig cracked under his foot and the kid looked around. He was just hanging there, one leg and one arm up, looking down over his shoulder with a frightened expression. Jerry had to make up his mind in a hurry, because in another second it might be too late. He got the bead in the notch of the peep-sight, centered on the kid's back just under the shoulderblade, squeezed the trigger. He saw the kid go over, arms and legs flying, and heard him hit with a solid thump at the base of the tree. He scrambled over there. The kid was lying on his back, blood all over the front of his shirt, but his eyes were open and focused; he was alive. Hell! said Jerry to himself, but there was no other way on God's earth now, and he aimed the rifle again. A piercing pain struck him in the chest, and he felt himself floating away light as a leaf on a dark wind.

  Chapter Five

  Cooley heard the shot, swore, and butted his way out of the tree house. He saw the kid at the base of the tree, but had only a glance to spare him, because Jerry was lying on the slope a few yards away, spread-eagled on the ground, jerking and twitching like a rag doll on a string. Cooley got down the tree as fast as he could and knelt beside him. Jerry's eyes were rolled back in their sockets; his skin was turning blue. The jerking of his limbs stopped with a final shudder. His face turned darker until it was indigo blue, the color of ink, color of venous blood. His pants-leg was wet, and there was a fecal smell. Cooley had seen dead men before, and knew better, but he unbuttoned Jerry's shirt and put his hand on his chest.

  After a minute he stood up and looked at the kid. Blood was pulsing out through the wet spot on his shirt and there was more of it spattered over the brush behind him. His eyes were closed, mouth open. His skin was yellowish-white. Not dead yet, but soon.

  "Jesus Christ." said Cooley, and hit the tree with his fist. He sat down and put his head in his hands; warm tears were leaking out of his eyes. What the hell was he going to do now, leave both bodies there and just walk away? Pretend he didn't know a thing about it? That would be too much of a coincidence. What a hell of a time for a heart attack. They might not find the bodies here for years, maybe never, but he couldn't count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep his mouth shut?

  He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again, he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right, closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.

  Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two, Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."

  "Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one, would you?"

  The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid had gone.

  Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell, who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said, "I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.

  Cooley, fretting
, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties, running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"

  "Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."

  "Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"

  "Got a tip from Steve Logan."

  "Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."

  "That's right."

  "And where were you?"

  "Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."

  "'Bout what time was that?"

  "Little after one."

  "Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"

  "No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when I come back from phoning, he was gone."

  Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith & Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"

  Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an awful thing."

  They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a stand of young vine maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it, then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.

  "Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over there -- you be the kid, Tom."

  Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver. "Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"

  "Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..

  "Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera, took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"

  "Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.

  "You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right in the chest."

  "Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."

  "Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up there?"

  "Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."

  "Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later, he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it, and lowered it to the ground.

  He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said. "Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down the slope.

  "I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said. After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"

  "Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first thing."

  When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns carefully in the back seat.

  "I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said. "Check with you later, Wayne."

  "No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from there."

  "Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"

  "That's for me to say."

  Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."

  "Hello, Stan."

  "Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach. "Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating the other things with one finger.

  "She'll be right over," the deputy said.

  "Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable, Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife7"

  "Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better from you."

  "Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."

  The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.

  "Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."

  Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."

  "Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.

  "Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice answered.

  "This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"

  "Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already, and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.

  "I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me feel like hell."

  "It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."

  The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the back. Eileen, bring your book."

  In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right, the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning," Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."

  Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again. About six o'ciock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement, three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.

  "Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"

  "Must of stole it somewhere."

  "Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in his hand? Or else he
can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand, pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun, or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction, Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."

  "You accusing me of something, Wayne?"

  "No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone, and you're a liar."

  Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."