CUTTER'S GROVE

by Patrick Dakin

  Sergeant Yates has become a semi-permanent fixture in town. He shows up at the oddest times and places, like he’s expecting to catch the killer in the act of disposing of his most recent victim. He’s questioned everyone at least twice and looks increasingly frustrated at the lack of progress in the case. His open hostility towards me, unfortunately, has people wondering if I’m not on his hot list of suspects. He’s already told me I’m not above suspicion in Anne Marie’s death, and who knows what he’s thinking about the Rhonda Getty killing. I’m getting worried enough about it that the dope hidden under my room is making me a little edgy. If Yates should suddenly decide to undertake a serious search of my place for some reason, I’m in deep trouble.

  ****

  Sonny calls me to the phone late Friday afternoon. “It’s Beth,” he says.

  I take the receiver. “Hi, babe. What’s up?”

  “Lucas,” she says, speaking in a whisper, “can Sonny hear me?”

  “No, he just stepped outside. Why?”

  “Come up to the diner. Right away.”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Just get over here. Please. Come right now, and don’t bring Sonny.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way.”

  When I get there Beth comes running up to me. “Come outside,” she says, grabbing my arm and hustling me out of the diner and around back where we’re alone.

  “What going on?”

  “Lucas, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “I’m not going to believe what?”

  “Yates pulled up to the diner earlier,” she says. “He got a call on his car radio just as he was parking right below the washroom window. I happened to be in there at the time and I made a point of eavesdropping. I overheard every word that was said.” She’s talking so fast the words are spilling over themselves.

  “Beth, settle down. Just tell me what you heard.”

  “Yates was talking to Deputy Chapin. Chapin told him they had just gotten the forensics report in on the bones. They were Anne Marie’s all right. But, get this: they’ve determined, without a doubt, that she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Not only that, Anne Marie and Rhonda Getty were killed with the same kind of weapon.”

  “But… how…?”

  “They were strangled to death - choked with some kind of garrote.” Beth is in tears now. “There’s identical ligature marks on the neck bones of both girls. Lucas, do you know what this means?”

  Time suddenly stops for me. The world is filled with white noise, like I’m standing on a beach somewhere with the sound of the ocean pounding in my ears. I can feel the blood flowing through my veins - not just the ponderous hammering of my heart in my chest, but actually feel the blood as it courses through me. Bile rises in my throat and the urge to puke nearly overpowers me; my hand actually goes to my mouth to stem the expulsion. Sonny lied to us about how Anne Marie was killed.

  “It means … Oh, my God … It means Sonny killed them both!”

  51

  My first impulse is to rush to the garage and confront Sonny, of course. But, suddenly, I’m brought up short by a thought.

  “We’ve got to tell Yates what we know.” Beth says desperately, seeing my uncertainty.

  “I’ve got to think this out before I do anything.”

  “But we---”

  “Beth, listen to me. Yates already suspects I may have had some hand in all this. Looking at it from his perspective I can’t say I blame him.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Really? Consider this: it was me that found Rhonda Getty’s body; it was me that found Anne Marie’s body; I’ve destroyed evidence in a murder investigation; illegally transported a corpse; lied, on numerous occasions, to Yates. And what evidence is there against Sonny?”

  “I was with you when we caught Sonny at the grave in the desert.”

  “Says who? You? Hardly an unprejudiced witness. Yates could easily conclude I’m guilty and I’ve enlisted your help to frame Sonny.”

  “Why in the world would I help you if you were guilty?” she says. There are tears in her eyes and her bottom lip is quivering.

  “Good question, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be enough to convince Yates I’m innocent.”

  “We can’t let Sonny get away with this. We’ve got to do something.”

  “I know. But if we don’t get something substantial on him he’ll walk. I burned that tarpaulin Anne Marie was buried in. It may have been the only thing that could have tied Sonny to the murder.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  I stand quietly for a minute, thinking. “He doesn’t know that we’re on to him - that the police have tied the two killings together. Until that becomes public knowledge, Sonny will assume he’s in the clear. In the meantime, we’ve got to find something incriminating against him.”

  “Like what?”

  I take a big breath. “The murder weapon would be nice.”

  I tell Beth to go back to work, to try and act like nothing has happened. She’s frantic, bordering on hysterical actually, but doesn’t argue with me.

  I head back to the garage to find Sonny’s pickup is gone. There’s no telling where he might be but he usually doesn’t go far. Searching his house right now could be very risky.

  My mind is in a whirl. I need to sit quietly for a few minutes and get my head straight.

  When I walk into my room, I’m met by Arliss. He has a forty-five in his hand. Herb is sitting at my kitchen table. And he doesn’t look happy.

  Arliss closes the door behind me and nudges me with the pistol in the direction of the sofa. “Sit down,” he says, “and don’t get any bright ideas.”

  I do as I’m told. “What the hell is going on?” I say in what I hope is a believably mystified manner.

  “Arliss and me have come to a few conclusions,” Herb says in his gravelly, drinkers voice.

  “About what?”

  “About something that belongs to us that’s missing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Listen to me, Tunney. I’m not a patient man. And when I lose my patience I get mean. I’m gonna ask you this just once. If you play cute with me, I can promise you one thing - you’ll regret it. Anything about this not clear to you?”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Where are the boxes?”

  “Boxes?”

  “I warned you not to screw with me,” he says. “Where are they?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Herb, I don’t have a clue---”

  For a big, overweight slob, Herb has the surprising ability to move fast when he wants to. In a flash he’s standing over me. He backhands me across the face, raising a nice welt under my right eye. I make a move to stand but Arliss puts the business end of the forty-five against my back with enough pressure to earn my respect.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” Herb says, looming over me. It’s real obvious that whatever miniscule amount of patience he may once have possessed has been fully depleted.

  “How did you find out it was me that took the stuff?”

  Herb smiles knowingly. “Arliss mentioned he ran into you at my place the other day. We got to thinking about who might be stupid enough to try and rip us off and guess what? Your name came immediately to mind.”

  “So, what happens if I tell you where it is?” I say.

  “Listen, numbnuts, there ain’t no ‘if’ about it. But I’ll tell you what happens if you don’t start talking real fast,” he says. “For starters I break both your legs. If we still haven’t earned your cooperation after that I take your girl friend for a ride in the desert. You’ll get to watch while I do some things you won’t like much. But I’ll love.”

  Neither of these scenarios conjures up an image I’m at all anxious to see made real.

  “Okay,” I say, “you’ve made your point. But I’m having a little trouble believing you just let
me walk away like we’re friends after you get your boxes back.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? We get our merchandise back, no harm done.” He smiles at me. It’s like being smiled at by a pit viper.

  I don’t think so, Herb. But what choice do I have here? I’m just about to cave in when the sound of a car pulling up to the shop stops us all cold.

  “Don’t make a sound,” Herb tells me. To Arliss: “Take a look. See who it is.”

  Arliss passes the forty-five to Herb and steps out into the shop. In a couple of seconds he’s back. “It’s Yates,” he says sounding scared.

  “Stay nice and calm,” Herb says to me, holding the gun firmly in one fat fist and locking my door with the other.

  A couple of seconds later we hear Yates come into the shop. He calls my name, then we hear his footsteps as he approaches my room. “Tunney, you in there?” he calls again. The handle rattles as he tries the door.

  I take a chance. “Yeah, I’m here, Sergeant,” I call out.

  Herb’s eyes narrow in a threatening gesture but we both know there’s nothing he can do with Yates standing a few feet away.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Yates says. “You wanna open up?”

  “Sure, hold on.” I raise my eyebrows to Herb. He tucks the pistol into the back of his pants and pulls out his shirt to cover it.

  When I open the door Yates takes in the three of us with unconcealed surprise. “Having a party, are you?”

  “Just a little business meeting,” I tell him.

  He looks at me skeptically, noting the swelling under my eye. I probably look a little anxious. Hell, even Victor looks nervous.

  “Mind if we step outside for a minute?” he says to me.

  “Sure,” I answer, noting the worried look that passes between Herb and Arliss.

  “We were just leaving anyway,” Herb says. He gives me a meaningful glance. “We’ll see you later.” By emphasizing you he stupidly makes it quite obvious our meeting has not ended on a joyful note.

  When they’re gone, Yates takes a seat at the table. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it a coincidence that I find the guy you had figured for Annie Marie’s death locked in your room with you, and you looking like you just used your head to beat the shit out of somebody’s fist?”

  “Oh, this,” I say, touching my cheek. “I bumped into something this morning.”

  “Yeah? Something like what?”

  For an instant I consider, once again, coming clean, at least about the dope. But then I’m reminded of the position I’m in. The dope is concealed on my premises. It’ll be my word against Herb and Arliss if I rat them out, and there’s no way to prove what has really happened.

  “Nothing,” I say. “What is it you wanted to see me about, Sergeant?”

  For a second or so Yates looks tempted to pursue a discussion about my swollen cheek, but then reconsiders. “There have been some new developments in the Alvarro and Getty cases,” he says, watching me closely to gauge my reaction.

  “Oh?”

  “Remember what I told you about those forensics techs? How they can uncover evidence from the most insignificant thing?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I remember.”

  “Well, it turns out they’ve determined Anne Marie Alvarro and Rhonda Getty were almost certainly killed by the same person.”

  “That’s---”

  “One other thing,” he continues. “Harold Miller is no longer a suspect in the Getty killing.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Thing is, now I’ve got another suspect. Someone it turns out who has no alibi for the times when either of those girls were kidnapped and killed.”

  I look at him, waiting for the shoe to drop.

  “I told you I was checking you out, Tunney. I’ve learned something very interesting about your whereabouts at the time Anne Marie Alvarro went missing.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I moan.

  “Not at all. Your supervisor at Telfor Electronics tells me you were on a weeklong vacation at that very time.”

  Yates is talking about my trip to San Diego last year. Karen had flown down there a week earlier to visit her parents at their winter home. I followed her in the Jeep and we drove back together. It took me four days to get there from Seattle. A nice leisurely drive that Yates is obviously concluding could have afforded me the opportunity to be right here at the time of Anne Marie’s disappearance. He’s taking it for granted - quite correctly I imagine - that I have no verifiable alibi for the early morning hours on the day Rhonda was taken.

  “I’m sure there are lots of people who can’t account for their exact whereabouts at that particular time,” I retort. “Are they all suspects as well?”

  Yates ignores the question and smiles knowingly. “Well, I’ve got to be going. It was real nice chatting with you. I’ll be speaking with you again real soon, so don’t consider going anywhere.” He gets up and heads for the door. “Take care of that cheek,” he says as he leaves.

  So, how much worse can my life get? I’ve got Herb and Arliss threatening to do me in for stealing their dope and Yates trying hard to nail me for the murders of two children.

  Maybe I should just shoot myself. The general outcome is likely to be similar in any case and it would save everybody all that bother.

  52

  After Yates leaves I spend an hour mulling over my predicament. The phone rings three times during that hour but I ignore it. I’m wondering how to deal with Sonny and how long it will be before I get another visit from Herb and Arliss. Then, suddenly, I’m struck by how simple the solution to my problem with Herb and Arliss is. Soon after, the phone rings again. This time I decide to pick it up. “Don’t think for a minute that anything has changed,” Herb threatens. “We want our stuff … tonight.”

  “Okay, you win. You’ll have it by midnight.”

  “What makes you think we’re gonna wait till midnight?”

  “You don’t have any choice, Herb. It’ll take me that long to get it here.”

  “So we’ll go with you to get it.”

  “Sorry, not possible. You’re going to have to trust me on this one. Just tell me where you want me to deliver it.”

  “You better not be---”

  “Don’t bother with any more threats,” I say. “Just tell me where you’ll be so I can give it to you.”

  “Alright,” he concedes, “we’ll play it your way. My place. But let me make something real clear for you. If for some reason - any reason at all - you’re not there by midnight with my merchandise … you’re a dead man. And that’s not just a threat. It’s a fact.” He hangs up.

  Charming guy. It’s going to be a genuine pleasure seeing him go down.

  I phone Beth at work. It’s just before seven, her quitting time. “Is Herb working there right now?” I ask her.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Does he lock his car?”

  “I doubt it. Why?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Lucas---” I don’t wait to hear the rest of what she’s about to say. I’m on the move.

  I head outside and jump in the Jeep, then drive it into the shop where I load it up with the boxes from my crawl space. After that I drive to the diner. Herb’s Lincoln is parked right where it always is, in the lane at the back entrance. I try the driver’s side door. It’s unlocked. I flip the trunk release and the lid springs open. Quickly, I transfer the boxes from the Jeep into the Lincoln. It’s a tight fit. If the trunk on the Lincoln was an inch smaller I’d never have gotten them in.

  Back at the shop I check Sonny’s driveway. His pickup is still gone. The thought crosses my mind that he somehow heard about Yates’ news and has taken off. There’s nothing to lose by checking it out. I try his door.

  It swings open at the touch of my hand. Just to be sure, I call out Sonny’s name before going in. There’s no response.

  Looking around,
I see everything looks pretty much like normal. There’s no indication he left in a hurry, grabbing a few essentials as he rushed out the door. When I look in his bedroom, though, I start to wonder. His closet door is wide open and there’s a bare space on the shelf over the bar where his meagre assortment of clothes are hung. It could have been occupied by anything, of course, but I’m questioning everything now. Maybe---

  I freeze at the sound of the back door opening. I look around for a place to hide but before I can make a move Sonny is standing at the entrance to the bedroom. “Lucas,” he says. He’s baffled. “What the heck you doin’ in here?”

  I give him a dumb look, too flustered to come up with a reasonable response. It quickly dawns on him what’s going on. He sidles into the room keeping the bed between us. Then, before I have a chance to react one way or the other, he lunges at his bedside table, opens the drawer and comes up with a pistol. He points it at me, then reaches into the drawer again. This time he comes up with a silencer. While he’s screwing it into place he says, “Looks like you figured things out.”

  Despite already knowing what I do, hearing him lay open his guilt like that has a huge effect on me. It’s like he has reached into my chest and squeezed my heart with his big fist. “Oh, Sonny. Why, for God’s sake?”

  The guy I’m looking at now bears little resemblance to the Sonny I thought I knew. The friendly, slow-moving, relaxed demeanor that is his trademark is gone. He has the look and posture of a man backed into a corner by a rabid dog. He’s scared, sure, but he’s also determined to fight his way out.

  “Outside,” he says.

  “What are you going to do? Surely you’re not stupid enough to think you can get away with killing me.”

  “I said outside. Now.”

  At the moment, he looks sufficiently whacked out that he’s capable of pretty much anything. I decide not to push him. “Okay, okay.”

  Once outside he holds the gun hard against my back and directs me to the Jeep.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him.

  “Shut up. Get behind the wheel.” Holding the gun on me through the windshield, he goes around to the passenger side and climbs in beside me. “Head over to that barn where you found the Getty kid,” he says. “Slow an’ easy. Don’t do nothin’ to get anybody’s attention.”