by Ed McBain
“Don’t be angry.” Her voice was pleading and soft.
“I am angry,” I said, almost shouting now.
“I’m sorry.” She padded toward me on her bare feet, the blouse pleasantly low on her breasts.
“You damned well ought to be. What the hell kind of a routine is this?”
“What, Steve?”
“The Puritan Maid business. All this fussing around, and being coy as a sixteen-year-old. For God’s sake, Jean, have you forgotten what happened yesterday after …”
“You’re shouting, Steve.”
“Oh, the hell with it then,” I said angrily. I slammed a fist into the open palm of my other hand, and tried to calm down. I was letting this get way out of hand. “All right,” I said softly, “let’s just skip it. It was fun, and I enjoyed it, but you don’t want to play any more, so I’ll just put on my hat and run along.”
“I didn’t say that, Steve.” Her voice was low and husky. She was standing close to me now, and I could feel the warmth of her body through the cotton blouse. Suddenly I scooped her to me, my arms tight around her waist. Her lips were warm and eager on mine, her tongue searching.
“Stevie, baby,” she moaned. “Oh, Stevie baby.”
I couldn’t get enough of her. I pulled her closer.
“Hey, Jean!”
She leaped out of my arms, her fingers darting to her hair. She sat down in the chair quickly, her skirts tight under her legs. For a moment, I didn’t know what happened. There was just the sudden coldness in my arms, the sudden absence of her, the sudden disappearance of her warmth. And then the voice sounded again, louder this time.
“Jean? Hey, Jean.”
I stared at my empty hands, then dropped them to my sides, all the heat abruptly leaving me. I felt weak, spent.
“It’s Mark,” she said.
“What the hell does he want?” I muttered. “Goddammit, he makes a habit of this, doesn’t …”
“Shhhh.”
Mark rapped politely on the screen door and then stepped into the cabin. A surprised look crossed his tanned features. The inevitable cigarette was burning close to his mouth. His grey eyes widened in momentary surprise. “Oh. Didn’t know you had company,” he apologized.
I stood there feeling like a cow turd. A new thought struck me. Supposing Mark had been Sam? I actually felt a little relieved.
“That’s all right,” Jean said. “Steve just dropped in to chat.”
Mark nodded briefly and walked over to the bed, sitting down heavily. “Phew,” he sighed, “one hell of a scorcher.”
I looked over at Jean, and her eyes told me she resented the intrusion as much as I did. I began to feel a little better.
“I didn’t know how good I had it,” Mark went on. “Sitting back there in the office, with a fan going on the back of my neck.” He rubbed a tanned hand over his strong jawbone. “Hell, driving that boat in the hot sun isn’t any fun, I’ll tell you.”
“Then Pete hasn’t turned up yet?” I asked.
“Damn lush,” Mark complained.
“Is he gone?” Jean asked.
“Right in the height of the season. That’s what I call gratitude. Give the bastard a job, and then he leaves you in a hole.” Mark shrugged wide shoulders. “Well, what the hell can you do about it?”
“Are you allowed back and forth?” I asked Mark.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we’re not allowed in to the mainland. I was wondering if you …”
“Oh, sure. Hell, I was nowhere around when Lois …” He cut himself short, glanced hastily at Jean, avoiding her eyes when she met his glance. “Sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Jean said. “It’s difficult to avoid talking about it. At least until they catch whoever did it.”
“They’ll get him,” Mark said. “Owens is a shrewd bugger, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”
I agreed mentally with Mark. Owens was that. A shrewd bugger, and he’d come up with something, all right. I was only afraid he’d come up with me.
Mark sighed and scratched beneath his left armpit. “The reason I stopped by,” he said, “I wanted to tell you about the canoe party.”
“The what?”
“The canoe party,” Mark repeated. “Never been on one?”
“No.”
“They’re lots of fun. You’ll like it.”
I didn’t like it already. I didn’t like the idea of a party so soon after Lois’ death. “Count me out,” I said.
Mark shrugged. “Suits me. How about you, Jean?”
Jean hesitated, and I said, “What the hell’s wrong with you, Gandler? Lois isn’t cold yet and you come around with your goddamned party invitations!”
“Jesus, take it easy,” Mark said, his hands raised in front of him, palms outward. “It’s not my idea. Everybody’s getting together, and they asked me to spread the word, that’s all.”
“Who’s everybody?” I asked.
“The gang from Big Burnt, the kids on the other side of Little Harbor. Everybody.”
“Everybody,” I repeated.
“Sure.”
“You know, Mark, just about anybody could have killed Lois. Anybody from any one of these islands could have come over and crashed in her skull. Anybody. So we’re getting them all together in one fat party and …”
“Look, Steve, I told you it wasn’t my idea. I’m bringing the beer out for them tonight, and they asked me to tell everybody about it. That’s all. If Jean doesn’t want to go, fine. I’m only asking her because …”
“I’ll go,” Jean said suddenly.
I snapped around to look at her, my eyes popping out of my head. “What?”
“I’m going.” She turned pleading blue eyes on me, and I wanted to reach out and bundle her into my arms. “We have to live with it all day, Steve. It’ll do us good to forget it for one night. Our moping isn’t going to catch her murderer any faster.”
“Sure,” Mark said, “that’s the way I feel.”
They had a point, of course. We could sit around and mourn, but that wasn’t going to do a hell of a lot of good. In fact, a little relaxation might make us all feel a little better.
Then too, as much as I hated to admit it after my nice speech about Lois, the thought of Jean and me alone in a canoe was an appealing one. If we could have some privacy …
“Sam will come, too,” Jean said.
“Why, sure,” Mark agreed.
“Sure,” I said. I shot a quick glance at Jean, and she winked suddenly, a wink that was gone almost before it appeared. I looked over at Mark to see if he’d caught it, but he apparently hadn’t. He stood up and stretched, the tee shirt lifting out of his trousers band, the muscles on his stomach rippling with his motion.
“Well,” Mark said, “back to work.”
He started for the door, then turned and asked, “You coming, Steve?”
I looked at Jean apprehensively, and she said, “I want to take a little nap.”
I felt that tight knot of anger rising inside me again, but it subsided when Jean added, “Sam’ll be home any minute and there’ll be no sleeping then.”
Mark stepped outside, and Jean winked again, a long wink this time, her long blond lashes whipping down over her eye, a faint promising smile on her lips. I felt good. I felt pretty goddamned good. I caught up to Mark and walked beside him down to his speedboat.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said.
“Sure. Where’s the party?”
Mark snapped his fingers, whirled and said, “Glad you reminded me. I’d better tell Jean.” He started up the path at a fast trot.
Before I got around to saying, “I can tell her for you,” he had disappeared into the protecting trees. I hung around with my hands in my pockets for a while, waiting for Mark to return. Then I figured, Hell, I should know where the party is, too, so I started up toward Jean’s cabin.
My feet crunched against the loose stones in the path as I walked into the
woods. The cabin sat like a tomb, silent and squat against the backdrop of trees. I walked right up to the door with my head bent, and threw it open. There was a sudden shuffle, and when I looked up, Mark was stepping back from Jean quickly.
For an instant, my eyes narrowed suspiciously. And then I realized what it was all about. Mark had probably been standing close to Jean as he spoke to her. They were both expecting Sam back at any moment, and Mark just didn’t want to give him any reason to start a jealousy tantrum. Even an innocent conversation would look damning to good old Sam. I smiled suddenly, realizing that my own reasoning had almost followed the exact same pattern. Me and Sam, the jealous suitors. That was really funny.
“All right,” Jean said. “It’s Big Burnt, Site Four. We’ll be there.”
I caught her eyes as Mark started for the door, and they told me everything I wanted to know. They pleaded with me to stay, but they also warned me that Sam would be back soon. I shrugged helplessly and let out my breath as I followed Mark from the cabin. We walked down to the speedboat, and he climbed in behind the wheel, pulled the throttle wide, the boat ripping away from the dock in a wide, curving arc.
I debated going back to Jean’s cabin again, figured that business about Sam was on the level, and decided against it.
Mark waved from far out on the lake, and I waved back and walked over to the rock barrier between One and Two. I crossed the rocks and walked toward my cooktent. A cup of coffee would feel good about now, then maybe a quick dip, and a little nap.
I walked inside, shook the pot and heard the splash of liquid against the heavy metal. Good. I wouldn’t have to brew a new batch. I started the kerosene burner going, then walked outside to sit at the table and wait for the coffee to warm.
I thought of Mark pushing his own speedboat, and the thought naturally led to Pete and his disappearance. Owens could be wrong, of course. After all, he had no reason to believe Pete was dead.
You might call Owens’ speculation a crude form of logic, however. He was assuming that a drunkard away from his home bar, without money, might just as well be dead.
All drunkards need money to drink.
Without drink, all drunkards might just as well be dead.
Therefore, all drunkards without money are dead.
That was half-ass logic, all right. Yet, Owens was a shrewd, calculating man, and he undoubtedly knew Pete’s habits well. If Pete were nowhere to be found in Bolton, it then followed that he was somewhere else.
Without money?
No, the prospect was unlikely. Alcoholics, especially those in small towns, simply didn’t stray far from their source of supply. And certainly not without money to tide them over.
Assuming Pete was dead then, why was he dead?
Goddammit, I was back in the old familiar groove again. I always had to assume first that somebody was dead, and then I had to figure out why. I never could automatically admit the death because there never was a goddamned body. And the reasons were as elusive as the corpses. And the whole mess was driving me nuts because it wasn’t exactly my idea of the ideal way to spend a vacation.
I stared down at the ground, wishing the coffee would hurry up and get warm. A charred piece of paper caught my eye, and I worried it with the toe of my loafer, grinding it into the dirt at my feet.
The wind lifted the edges of the paper, turning it over. I pinned it down with my toe again, playing a little game with it. I lifted my toe, and the paper tried to rise with the wind, but I stepped on it again.
STEVE,
I picked up my toe and a strong gust of wind lifted the scrap and tried hard to carry it away.
STEVE,
I stepped on it again.
STEVE,
I THINK I’VE.…
It hit me like a pile driver, right in the gut, almost taking the wind out of me. There was writing on that paper! I lifted my toe and the wind scooped it up and carried it across the ground. I tried to swing my legs away from the bench, watching the tiny scrap of paper flitting close to the dirt, edging out toward the water. I got up and ran after it, thinking what a fool I’d been, what a goddamned fool. I could have picked it up all along, and now I was chasing it, chasing a will o’ the wisp with writing on it, pencil writing.
I made a dive as the paper reached the waterline, my fingers closing tightly around it. I sat down, my heart beating faster, unclenched my fist and smoothed out the scrap.
It was nothing more than a curled wisp, the edges charred and browned. The rest of it had undoubtedly been burned to a crisp, and this was the remainder, a bit that had escaped the flames.
The handwriting was strong, with broad pencil strokes a hurried, harassed hand. I’d never seen Lois’ handwriting, but I knew instinctively it was hers.
There wasn’t much there. Most of it had been burned away.
STEVE,
I THINK I’VE FO
THE WOODS. I’M
POLICE NOW, BUT
KNOW SO THAT IN
HAPPENS TO
HANDL
Half of a note. Or maybe a third of a note. Maybe less. It didn’t tell me much. It only said that Lois had stumbled upon something, something she’d been killed for.
And she’d found that something in the woods.
I ran up to my cabin and changed my swimming trunks for a pair of dungarees and a tee shirt. I stuck the scrap of paper into my pocket and headed for the woods.
The sun was hot on my back, and I wasn’t surprised to see that my hands were trembling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was cool under the covering of the trees. They stretched upward like proud monarchs, their crowns touching the sky. There was the faint suggestion of a breeze soughing through the trees, passing gentle fingers over the pine needles. It was cool, cool with the dimness of a cathedral.
I felt hot.
My tee shirt stuck to my back, and the crotch of my dungarees irritated me. My arms were wet, streams of perspiration pouring down onto my wrists. I worked my way deeper into the woods, excitement and apprehension crowding each other in my veins.
Lois had found something, something she was ready to tell the police about. She had probably written the note to tell me where she was going, to make sure I knew all about it just in case she didn’t happen to get there.
Well, she didn’t get there. Someone had made sure of that. What she’d discovered had been important enough to kill for. I had a hunch what that something was, and every time I thought of it The Anvil Chorus would start in my blood again.
Overhead, the birds kept up an infernal racket, cawing and shrieking to themselves in the treetops. My feet made no sound as they traveled over the fallen pine needles. There was only the noise of the birds, incessant, unending. That, and the ragged sound of my breath, and the distant muffled sounds of people on the lake.
The quiet was unnatural, and I wanted to scream aloud, shout, anything to break it. I had the uncanny feeling that I was the last person alive on earth, alone in a deep wilderness, alone with whatever discovery I was about to make. The birds cheered me on as I made way over the noiseless ground, my eyes probing behind every rock, studying every shadow.
I hadn’t traveled far when I realized it would be a good idea to start marking the trees. Otherwise, I could wander around in the same circle for hours, covering the same ground over and over again. I picked up a sharp, pointed rock and scratched at the bark of a heavy pine. Then I began walking again, marking a tree every ten yards or so.
I kept marking trees, sweating more heavily now as I climbed over rocks and ducked low-hanging branches.
Where had Lois gone on her daily walks, I wondered.
Just anywhere?
Did she follow a set pattern every day? Walk so far to the right until she reached a certain tree, then climb over a rock and down into a little glade, and then over this way, and then back? Or did she just walk at random, the way old men sometimes do in the park, sniffing the air, looking up at the patches of sky showing through the tr
ees? I suddenly wished I’d asked her. A pain filled my chest, abruptly and without warning. With all my might, I wished that she were still alive, that she were here walking with me in the woods, that she could be here to squeeze my hand and say, “Isn’t it wonderful, Steve?”
A funny kid, Lois. Almost as if her mind and her body were two separate entities; one a little girl, wondering and naïve; the other a deeply sensuous, lustful woman. I wondered if I’d have liked either without the other, and then I remembered that the combination hadn’t been a successful one. A little of both would have been fine. An experienced woman with the energetic wonder of a child. That would have been fine. As it was, the woman outbalanced the child, and there was only a machine, mechanical in its demands, never satisfied and, as a result, never satisfying.
Lois would never have been happy with one man. Her mind might have adjusted to the prospect, but her body never would have. And I wondered idly if she weren’t better off dead, happier perhaps, the warring entities within her at rest finally.
The thought pleased me until I remembered how she’d been killed, how a rock had been used to cave her head in, to mutilate her face. What son of a bitch would do a thing like that? What man could wantonly destroy something as beautiful and alive as Lois had been?
There was a new pounding in my veins now, and anger boiled up inside me like a dark, evil brew, anger at an unseen bastard, a sneaking murderer with blood on his hands and filth in his heart.
I stumbled forward blindly, wanting to rip something apart, wanting to find the son of a bitch and tear his arms from his body.
I almost missed the shovel.
It was half buried by the pine needles, rusted so that it was almost invisible against the brown carpet. I passed it, and then I turned back and stared down at it for a moment without moving toward it. I reached down finally and picked it up. The blade was old and corroded, with a dull edge. Earth clung to the metal, and I knew it had been used recently. The handle had been broken off close to the blade, leaving room for two hands before the wood ended in a splintered, jagged manner. In its present condition, it somehow resembled a short Army spade, the blade too large of course, and the handle too thick, but the resemblance there nonetheless.
