I should have known then. But I didn't. I thought she was light. I reached for her six years ago, and I held her and for a while she lit up my life . . . I thought she was light. But she wasn't, she isn't. Underneath she's the dark. She's always been the dark, swallowing the light piece by piece—with Nicky, with Pete, with all the others. Kjel, too, my best friend. Turning him dark too.
I did it all wrong, Pa. All of it, right to the end. And that's the real reason I'm sorry about what I did this morning.
I shouldn't have blown them up, blown me up. I should have blown her up, lit up the dark with fire and light.
Too late now. I did it all wrong.
And she's still out there, waiting.
The dark out there, waiting.
Deathwatch.
The pain isn't so bad now, the fire on me doesn't burn so hot. The morphine working? No, it isn't the morphine.
Something cool touches my face. I'm not alone in the room any more.
The bastard with the scythe is here.
But I won't look at him. I won't look at the dark of his clothes and the dark under his hood. I'll look at the light instead . . . up there on the ceiling, the big fluorescent tubes shining down, light shining down, look at the light, reach for the light, the light . . .
And the door opens, I hear it open, and from a long way off I hear Lila's voice say, "I couldn't stay away, Danny, I had to see you, I had to come—"
The dark!
OUTRAGEOUS
Dunsett had two things Burke had coveted and one habit Burke hated, so Burke decided to murder him.
He walked over to Dunsett's neighboring dairy ranch, which was one of the things he coveted, and stole a glance through the kitchen window at Dunsett's wife, which was the other thing he coveted, and then he went into the milking barn. Dunsett was there, using a hose on the floor near an overturned bucket. The barn and all the dairy equipment gleamed spotlessly; Dunsett was a fastidious man, and a fanatical one when it came to his cattle. He claimed he had a kind of mystical communion with them—that he would do anything for them and in return they would do anything for him. Which was a lot of nonsense, of course, although Burke had to admit that Dunsett's dairy ranch was the most productive in the state.
He went up to where Dunsett stood working with the hose. "Hello, Dunsett," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Dunsett said. "I was using a lye soap solution to wash the floor and I knocked over the bucket accidentally. So I'm cleaning it up now." He grinned. "After all, there's no use milking over spilt lye."
That was the habit Burke hated—outrageous punning. It cemented his decision. He walked over and picked up a metal bar that was part of the vacuum milking machine and hit Dunsett over the head with it.
Dunsett make a cow-like bleating sound and toppled over on the floor. Outside, somewhere in the north pasture, several cattle began to make noise—a new low for them, as if they had heard Dunsett and were responding to his cry. But then, after a few seconds, they stopped and it was quiet again, inside and out.
Burke determined to make the murder look like an accident. First, he dragged the body over near one of the cattle stalls and arranged it so that it seemed as though Dunsett had slipped and fallen against a stanchion. Then he wiped off the bar with his handkerchief and returned it to the vacuum machine. When he stepped back to examine it he was satisfied that it appeared clean and homogenous, like every milk bar he had ever seen.
He turned and started across to the doors. Just before he got there, he heard voices outside. He looked around frantically, but there was no other immediate exit from the barn. Which meant that he had to find a place to hide, and the only place he saw nearby was a stack of large stainless-steel milk pails painted in Dunsett's favorite color of crimson.
Burke ran there and dropped down on all fours behind the stack, just as the barn doors opened. There was a narrow crawlspace between some of the containers; he eased his way along it to the front, where he could see a narrow aperture between two of them. He knelt there and peered past the red pails at Dunsett.
The voices belonged to Mrs. Dunsett and one of the ranch hands. They found the body right away, and there was a lot of excitement and confusion for the next couple of minutes. Burke held his breath and sat perfectly still as he watched them. He knew he was lost if he was found.
Mrs. Dunsett left finally to notify the authorities, but the ranch hand stayed there to watch over the body. After a time he began to pace back and forth in heavy-footed strides. Burke remained motionless and watched and waited, listening to the sound of the one hand clopping.
Before long the sheriff arrived from the nearby village, along with the local mortician, who was also the county coroner; the mortician drove his hearse right inside the barn. They examined the body while Dunsett's wife and the ranch hand looked on. Then the sheriff glanced around the barn, and for a moment Burke was afraid he would want to search it.
But the mortician said, "Looks like an accident to me. Fell and hit his head on that stanchion. Probably slipped on the wet floor."
The sheriff agreed. And he stopped looking around.
Burke breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as they loaded Dunsett's remains into the hearse and prepared to depart. He was home free. All he had to do was leave his hiding place, slip outside, and close the barn door after the hearse was gone.
Which he did, five minutes later. There was no sign of anyone in the vicinity; apparently they had all gone into the village. Smiling, Burke moved away from the barn and headed for the north pasture, a shortcut to his own property. He thought he had committed the perfect crime.
But he was wrong.
When he got out in the middle of the pasture, Dunsett's outraged cattle converged on him, knocked him flat on his face, piled on top of him, and crushed him to death.
First moral: Murderers often get it in the end.
Second moral: Never underestimate the herd mentality. Third moral: Milk and beef can put a lot of weight on you. Fourth moral: When walking in a pasture, always be on the alert for cow flops.
MUGGERS' MOON
I was walking along one of the cinder paths in the southern end of the park when the blond guy in the Navy pea jacket tried to mug me.
I caught a glimpse of him in the pale moonlight as he came out of the shrubbery that bordered the path on one side, but before I could react he threw an arm around my neck and put a knee in the small of my back. Pain lanced across my throat and suddenly there was no more air in my lungs. Bright white lights flashed in back of my eyes. I felt myself being bent backwards. In another second he would have had me.
I had just enough time to piston my left elbow backward. He took it under the wishbone, and air exploded against the back of my neck. I gave him another one, felt his arm loosen around my throat; then I had him. I twisted off his knee, wrenching my head down—and I was free. I hit him with a right and a left, very fast, and he went down and stayed there. He wasn't going anywhere for a while.
I stood over him, trying to pull breath into my aching lungs, rubbing my throat where he'd held me. My ears were ringing. The damned bum!
I was still standing over him, gasping for breath, when a big uniformed patrolman came running up out of nowhere. He had his service revolver ready in his right hand, a flashlight with a bright beam slicing the darkness in his left. He put the light on me. "What's going on here?"
The light was blinding; I raised my hand against it. "Where'd you come from?" I asked him.
"Never mind that." He swung the flash down to the mugger lying on the ground, then brought it up to me again. "What happened here?"
"I was coming along the path when he jumped me out of those shrubs?"
"Tried to mug you?"
"Yeah."
"How'd you get him?"
"Some elementary judo."
"Nice work."
"I'm trained for it, same as you," I said, and I let him see the badge and identification in the leather case in m
y coat pocket. "I'm Andrews, with the Twenty-ninth Detective Squad—over on the other side of the park."
"A dick," the patrolman said. He put his revolver away and lowered the flash. "Well, well. What are you doing here this time of night?"
"I'm on special assignment, working with your precinct on this mugger case," I told him. "There's four of us spread through the area."
"Nobody ever lets us poor foot jockeys in on anything."
"You think we got nothing better to do than tell you guys about every stakeout we go on?"
"Okay, okay."
"How'd you get here so fast, anyway?"
"I was rousting a vag sleeping on one of the benches near the fountain," the patrolman said. "Heard all the noise on the path here. Lucky thing, you know? I mean, he could have put you out before you had the chance to use your judo. If he had I would've been right on top of him."
"Sure," I said. I was still having difficulty breathing. "How's your throat?"
"He damned near crushed my windpipe."
"Just like those two women."
"Yeah."
The patrolman went to one knee beside the mugger and looked him over. Young, well set up, with huge hands that had thick blond hair growing on their backs. Wearing black denims and black leather boots along with the pea jacket.
"Big and plenty strong, looks like," the patrolman said. "You figure this is the guy, Andrews? The one the papers are calling the Park Stalker?"
"Figures that way," I said. "His technique is right. We'll find out for certain when we get him to the Twenty-ninth."
The patrolman nodded. He turned the mugger over and ran a quick frisk and didn't find any weapons. He took a thin cowhide wallet out of the back pocket of the denims and shined his flash on it. "Name's David Lee," he said. "You make him?" I shook my head.
"Lives over on Madison, a few blocks from here," the patrolman said. "Can you beat that? Right in our own backyard."
"Yeah," I said.
He got to his feet and took off his cap and looked up at the thin lunar slice in the dark sky—a muggers' moon. "Man, I sure hope he's the one."
"That makes two of us."
"Whole city is in a panic over this rash of muggings, especially with those two women dead and the one guy critical in the hospital. Been eleven assaults up to now, hasn't there?"
"That's right," I said. "Eleven."
"There's a lot of parks in this city," the patrolman said, "and he's never hit the same one twice in a row. Smart bastard. We'll play hell catching him if it isn't this baby here."
"He's the one," I said. "He's got to be."
"I hope you're right, Andrews."
"Listen, you watch him while I go over to the Twenty-ninth. Captain's going to want to set up for plenty of publicity on this pinch before we bring him in."
"Well, I don't know . . ."
"You'd like to get your name in the papers, wouldn't you?" The patrolman's face brightened. "Mean you'll let me share in a little of the glory?"
"Why not? Might mean a promotion for both of us."
"Hell, Andrews, that's decent of you."
I shrugged. "Just don't let him get away, that's all."
The patrolman had already unhooked handcuffs from his belt. "You don't have to worry none about that," he said.
I left him and went back to the fountain. From there I cut across the grass and came out of the park on Dunhill Street. Then I headed west, downtown—away from the Twenty-ninth Precinct.
That had been too damn close, I thought. If I'd been Mr. Average Citizen, the patrolman would have taken me in to sign a complaint. Then suppose somebody got suspicious? They'd have run a routine fingerprint check, and I'd have been a dead goose, brother. I've got an assault record in two cities down South.
It's a lucky thing I had that police badge and ID, all right.
But it's an even luckier thing that Number Twelve, the guy I'd mugged ten minutes before that stupid blond amateur jumped me, had been a real detective on stakeout duty in the park.
HERO
A Tale of the Old West
The mob boiled upstreet from Saloon Row toward the jail-house. Some of the men in front carried lanterns and torches made out of rag-wrapped sticks soaked in coal oil; Micah could see the flickering light against the black night sky, the wild quivering shadows. But he couldn't see the men themselves, the hooded and masked leaders, from back here where he was at the rear of the pack. He couldn't see Ike Da11 neither. Ike Da11 was the one who had the hang rope already shaped out into a noose.
Men surged around Micah, yelling, waving arms and clubs and six-guns. He just couldn't keep up on account of his damn game leg. He kept getting jostled, once almost knocked down. Back there at Hardesty's Gambling Hall he'd been right in the thick of it. He'd been the center of attention, by grab. Now they'd forgot all about him and here he was clumping along on his bad leg, not able to see much, getting bumped and pushed with every dragging step. He could feel the excitement, smell the sweat and the heat and the hunger, but he wasn't a part of it no more.
It wasn't right. Hell damn boy, it just wasn't right. Weren't for him, none of this would be happening. Biggest damn thing ever in Cricklewood, Montana, and all on account of him. He was a hero, wasn't he? Back there at Hardesty's, they'd all said so. Back there at Hardesty's, he'd talked and they'd listened to every word—Ike Da11 and Lee Wynkoop and Mack Clausen, all of them, everybody who was somebody in and around Cricklewood. Stood him right up there next to the bar, bought him drinks, looked at him with respect, and listened to every word he said.
"Micah seen it, didn't you, Micah? What that drifter done?"
"Sure I did. Told Marshal Thrall and I'm tellin' you. Weren't for me, he'd of got clean away."
"You're a hero, Micah. By God you are."
"Well, now. Well, I guess I am."
"Tell it again. Tell us how it was."
"Sure. Sure I will. I seen it all."
"What'd you see?"
"I seen that drifter, that Larrabee, hold up the Wells, Fargo stage. I seen him shoot Tom Porter twice, shoot Tom Porter dead as anybody ever was."
"How'd you come to be out by the Helena road?"
"Mr. Coombs sent me out from the livery, to tell Harry Perkins the singletree on his wagon was fixed a day early. I took the shortcut along the river, like I allus do when I'm headin' down the valley. Forded by Fisherman's Bend and went on through that stand of cottonwoods on the other side. That was where I was, in them trees, when I seen it happen."
"Larrabee had the stage stopped right there, did he?"
"Sure. Right there. Had his six-gun out and he was tellin' Tom to throw down the treasure box."
"And Tom throwed it down?"
"Sure he did. He throwed it right down."
"Never made to use his shotgun or his side gun?"
"No sir. Never made no play at all."
"So Larrabee shot him in cold blood."
"Cold blood—sure! Shot Tom twice. Right off the coach box the first time, then when Tom was lyin' there on the ground, rollin' around with that first bullet in him, Larrabee walked up to him cool as you please and put his six-gun agin Tom's head and done it to him proper. Blowed Tom's head half off. Blowed it half off and that's a fact."
"You all heard that. You heard what Micah seen that son of a bitch do to Tom Porter—a decent citizen, a man we all liked and was proud to call friend. I say we don't wait for the circuit judge. What if he lets Larrabee off light? I say we give that murderin' bastard what he deserves here and now, tonight. Now what do you say?"
"Hang him!"
"Stretch his dirty neck!"
"Hang him high!"
Oh, it had been fine back there at Hardesty's. Everybody looking at him the way they done, with respect. Calling him a hero. He'd been somebody then, not just poor crippled-up Micah Hays who done handy work and run errands and shoveled manure down at the Coombs Livery Barn. Oh, it had been fine! But now—now they'd forgot him again, left him behind, left him ou
t of what was going to happen on his account. They were all moving upstreet to the jailhouse with their lanterns and their torches and their hunger, leaving him practically alone where he couldn't do or see a damn thing . . .
Micah stopped trying to run on his game leg and limped along slow, watching the mob, wanting to be a part of it but wanting more to see everything that happened after the mob got to the jailhouse. Then he thought: Why, I can see it all! Sure I can! I know just where I got to go.
He hobbled ahead to the alley alongside Burley's Feed and Grain, went down it to the staircase built up the side wall. The stairs led to a railed gallery overlooking the street, and to the offices of the town lawyer, Mr. Spivey, that had been built on top of the feed-store roof. Micah stumped up the stairs and went past the dark offices and on down to the far end of the gallery.
Hell damn boy! He sure could see from up here, clear as anybody could want. The mob was close to the jailhouse now; in the dancy light from the lanterns and torches, he could make out the hooded shape of Ike Da11 with his hang-rope noose held high, the shapes of Lee Wynkoop and Mack Clausen and the others who were leading the pack. He could see that big old shade cottonwood off to one side of the jail, too, with its one gnarly limb that stretched out over the street. That was where they was going to hang the drifter. Ike Da11 had said so, back there at Hardesty's. "We don't have to take him far, by Christ. We'll string him up right there next to the jail."
The front door of the jailhouse opened and out come Marshal Thrall and his deputy, Ben Dietrich. Micah leaned out over the railing, squinting, feeling the excitement scurry up and down inside his chest like a mouse on a wall. Marshal Thrall had a shotgun in his hands and Ben Dietrich held a rifle. The marshal commenced to yelling, but whatever it was got lost in the noise from the mob. Mob didn't slow down none, neither, when old Thrall started waving that Greener of his. Marshal wasn't going to shoot nobody, Ike Da11 had said. "Why, we're all Thrall's friends and neighbors. Ben Dietrich's, too. They ain't goin' to shoot up their friends and neighbors, are they? Just to stop the lynching of a murderin' son of a bitch like Larrabee?"
Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories Page 18
