by Ed McBain
It came to me slowly, and after awhile I felt good enough to try sending signals from my brain to my feet. I moved out, a little wobbly, but moving nonetheless.
I’d traveled about twenty feet when I realized I had no idea where I was going. I leaned against another tree, touching my scalp with probing fingers.
How many holes did I have in my head?
Did I have a head any more?
I remembered reading a story once about a guy with the back of his head missing. The Man With No Head? No, no, it was The Man Who Lost His Head. All about this fellow who has the back of his head knocked off, then goes out to find the guy who did it, dying all the while.
Was I dying now?
Hell, I knew who did it. My pal Jedediah. Jedediah with the leather jacket and the whiskey and horse manure stench. Good old Jedediah, the bastard.
I shook my head. How the hell was I going to get out of these woods? Where were all the cops? Great little police force Owens had, all right. Wonderful little law enforcers. Pull you in for spitting on the sidewalk, but try to find one when your head was leaking in sixty-nine places.
Hadn’t I marked trees or something?
It seemed so long ago, but hadn’t Eagle Scout Richmond marked a trail this afternoon? I reached into my pocket, shoved the crumpled package of cigarettes aside and pulled out the book of matches. I struck one, and the blood on my hands shocked me for a minute, a brownish crimson in the flickering light of the match. I staggered forward, looking for some landmark. I almost fell headlong over the small outcropping of boulders that had protected me earlier in the day.
Protection, hah! Is it better to be shot clean, or pounded into the ground with a rock? You pays your money and you takes your choice. Only they hadn’t given me a choice. They’d just said, “Be a good boy. This is Jedediah.” Wham!
I had my landmark, though. The clearing should be down past the boulders, and after that I’d be able to find the markings I left on the trees.
The match burnt down to my fingers, and I dropped it with a small gasp. I walked around the boulders, lighting three more matches until I reached the clearing.
The moon and the stars suddenly appeared overhead. The clearing lay bathed in silver moonlight, the pine needles looking like fallings from a painted Christmas tree. I walked a little faster now, able to see my way in the brightly lighted glade.
I started to think about the lye again. Mark. Sure, who else? But why?
I dropped that one. I was having enough trouble getting back to my cabin. This was no time to turn detective. That was Owens’ job.
I began to spot the markings the minute I went into the trees again. Boy, you’re smart, I told myself. You’re a genius, Richmond, a goddamned genius, all right. Marking trees! Ain’t that something, now? Too bad you weren’t smart enough to keep your head out of the way of that rock. Well, you can’t be smart about everything, now can you?
I came out of the woods in back of the cooktent, and I went straight down to the edge of the lake. There wasn’t a light burning anywhere. I looked up at the sky and the view was still breathtaking, thousands of stars wheeling overhead on sparkling white bicycles. I took off my shirt and lay down flat, my head and shoulders in the water. The coldness slashed into my cuts, but it felt good, and it woke me up a little. When I’d had enough, I stood up and dried my face with the tee shirt. A cut near my right temple started to bleed again, so I headed back for my cabin, wondering if I’d brought along any iodine.
Jean was sitting on the front step.
I almost didn’t see her at first. But then a stray moonbeam caught her yellow hair, touched on the planes of her face.
“Steve?” she asked.
“Ye …” My voice stuck in my throat from disuse. “Yes,” I managed.
She seemed to sense something. “Is anything wrong?” She stood up and walked over close to me.
“Plenty. Let’s go inside.”
I stepped into the cabin and walked straight to the kerosene lamp. I lifted the chimney and struck a match, lowering the wick immediately. I heard the screen door slam as Jean came into the cabin. I turned to face her then.
“Steve!”
Her mouth dropped open in horror, and pain shot into her blue eyes. She brought one hand up to her throat, and that hand shook as she stared at me.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she repeated.
I passed a hand over my face. “Is it that bad?”
“Steve, what happened? Your face … you … Steve, Steve.”
She rushed into my arms and buried her head in my shoulder. I could feel the shivers shooting through her body as she pressed tight against me.
“Have you got a mirror?” I asked.
She nodded dumbly, her chin against my chest, then backed away and began fishing in a small, square purse she was carrying. I watched her as she hunted for the mirror.
She wore a crisp blue blouse, open at the throat, with a pocket over each breast, and one of those wrap-around skirts, a big brass safety pin holding it together. Her feet were thrust into scuffed moccasins. I was watching her legs, and I didn’t know how long she’d been holding out the mirror before I realized it.
I took it from her, and she smiled a little.
I held up the mirror, and my first instinct was to back away and get out of the room. A man wasn’t safe with that horror around! It penetrated after a while that the horror was me, and I looked into the mirror again and shook my head sadly. He’d really done a job, all right. He’d really given me one hell of a workout. No wonder he’d thought I was dead.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“It’ll heal,” she said softly. “We’d better take care of it now, though.”
I sat down on the bed, staring into the mirror all the while. My face resembled a discarded garbage can, overflowing with meat scraps. The bone over my right cheek was exposed, the skin hanging down in a raw, thick flap. My left eye was swollen, and I looked at my lips, marvelling at the fact that he hadn’t touched them—not to a great extent, anyway. There was a small cut near the side of my lips, but when I thought of the wonderful job he could have done on my mouth, with all those white shining teeth inside, I was thankful for the cut.
Jean found iodine in my valise and began swabbing at the cuts, using a clean tee shirt which she tore into strips. She also found a roll of adhesive which I couldn’t remember having packed, and she had me looking like a hit-and-run emergency case in no time. She tucked the loose flap of skin back where it belonged and slapped a pad and some tape on it. She covered every cut on my face, even taping the bridge of my nose where a jagged gash was showing. She sat down then, and I turned sideways while she started on the back of my head.
“Who did it?” she asked.
“Jedediah.”
“Who?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I broke his pop gun. He got sore.”
“Really, Steve.…”
“His pal was drowned. He thought I did it.”
“Pete, you mean?”
“Yeah.” My voice was surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Sheriff Owens was out a little while ago. He told us about it.”
“Owens?” I turned around, and my look was an anxious one. “Where is he now?”
“He went along on the canoe party.”
“You’re kidding! Owens?”
“Strictly business. When Pete turned up, Owens wanted to call the party off. He finally agreed to our having it if he and some of the troopers could come along.”
“Where are they now?”
“They left for Big Burnt a little while ago.”
“Was Mark with them?”
“Why yes. Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I think he killed Johnny,” I said.
Her hands stopped moving. “What makes you say that?”
“I think I’ve found Johnny’s body.”
“Where?”
“In the woo
ds, buried.”
“What makes you think it was Mark? I mean, why would Mark …”
“I don’t know why. That’s just the hell of it. Why the hell would Mark want to kill Johnny? And did he kill Lois, too?”
“It sounds so unlike …”
“Hey!” I shouted. “Hey!”
“What? What is it, Steve?”
“That bastard in the woods. He worked me over with a rock. Do you think he could have killed Lois?”
“I … I don’t know. Did he know her?”
“No, no, he couldn’t have done it. I mean, why should he? Oh hell, why should anyone?” A new thought came to me. “Why aren’t you with the rest?”
“I waited for you.”
I nodded, a slight smile coming onto my face. “What did Sam have to say about that?”
“I told him I had a headache, said I’d be along later. He’ll make out all right. A lot of unattached girls will be at the party.”
“I want to see Owens,” I said.
She put her hands on my bare arms, and her eyes looked up into mine. They were smoky and veiled, the lashes almost touching. “Let’s stay here, Steve.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to see Owens, honey.”
She leaned over, and the blouse leaned over with her, and I was surprised to see she wore no bra. I was so surprised that I almost reached out. She caught the sudden movement of my hand, and a strange smile swept over her lips.
“Come on,” she said. “We can still catch them if we hurry.”
I wasn’t so sure I wanted to catch them now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She took my hand as we started down toward the docks, and the gentle pressure reminded me of a night not so long ago, a night when Lois and I had walked down toward the docks, ready to go to another party.
There’d be no more parties for Lois, ever, and the thought made me want to reach Owens in a hell of a hurry.
“Let’s take the outboard,” I suggested.
“It’s a canoe party,” Jean said simply.
“I know, but …”
“We’ll get there fast enough with the canoe,” she said.
“Jean, I …”
“Besides, Owens is with the gang. Nothing can happen with him around.”
I nodded in the darkness. She was right, of course. Owens was a thorough man, and I was certain there’d be no trouble with him along. Still, Mark.…
“All right?” she asked.
“All right, but let’s make it fast.”
The green canoe was bobbing at the dock when we reached the waterfront. I held Jean’s hand as she stepped down into the canoe, the overlap of her skirt falling back to show the fullness of her thigh. She sat down in the stern and picked up a paddle, and I looked at her curiously.
She smiled up and said, “I’ll paddle.”
I held the line in my hands, ready to get into the canoe. “I can paddle,” I said.
“You’re too weak, lover. I want you to save your strength for later.”
Her words sent a shiver of anticipation up my spine. I fought it down, remembering the lye, and Johnny, and Mark.
“Honey,” I started, “I’m strong enough to …”
“No arguments,” she said. “Come on aboard.”
I shrugged and climbed down into the bow, dropping the coil of rope at my feet. I felt around with my hands and found a portable radio, a blanket, and a pint of whiskey.
“Just sit back and relax,” she said. “I’m skipper of this ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
She laughed softly, a velvet-lined laugh that reached out to caress me with warm fingers. I gripped the sides of the canoe as she skillfully backed water, moving it away from the dock. The lake was unusually quiet and calm. Long, slender clouds hung close to the horizon, reflected darkly in the water. She turned the boat, and I heard the gentle slap of her paddle as it slithered in and out of the water. We began to pick up speed, the canoe leaping forward with each strong stroke she took. She paddled now on the starboard side, now on the port, keeping the nose of the light craft pointed in a straight line. We rounded the tip of the island and started across the wide expanse to Big Burnt.
Across the water, a string of lights hung against the night sky, like the illumination on a Christmas tree.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“They’re getting ready to leave, I guess. Those are flashlights tied to paddles. The paddles are propped up in the bow. Less danger of getting rammed that way, and it’ll keep the party together.”
As she spoke, the lights began to bob and move away from the dim outline of Big Burnt. Like nuns bearing candles on a dark hillside, they edged out over the water, heading North.
“We’d better hurry,” I said.
“We’ll catch them. Don’t worry.”
I watched the lights begin to move rapidly now, and I heard the steady slap of Jean’s paddle behind me.
“They’ve got a good start.”
“I know where they’re going,” Jean said. “We’ll find them.”
The string of lights grew shorter as the lead canoe turned around the Northern end of Big Burnt. One by one, the lights began disappearing as the canoes made the turn. They were there one moment, and then they vanished as they were blocked from sight. The last canoe rounded the bend, and the lake was black again. From far off behind Big Burnt, I heard the voices of the people in the party, clear and strident in the silence of the night.
“Let me paddle,” I said.
“I’m the skipper,” Jean repeated. “You’d better relax before I conk you with the paddle.”
I eased back on the narrow seat and grinned. “Okay, okay.”
I looked up at the moon, my eyes wandering over the miles of stars. The night was a soft black blanket sprinkled with silver dust. A mild breeze drifted over the bow of the canoe, stroking my face gently. I closed my eyes and let all the weariness in me take over. My muscles relaxed, and there was only the swish of the bow as it pushed forward through the water, and the slap of the paddle. The sounds of the party grew fainter and fainter, and the silence seemed to close in like a dancer on tiptoe.
It took me a little while to realize that Jean had stopped paddling.
The silence was so intense, you understand, that it seemed complete. Lack of sound was the criterion, and sound of any kind would have seemed out of place. But it suddenly came to me that the quiet was too complete. I turned my head and looked back at Jean. She was sitting in the stern sheets, the paddle across her knees.
“Hey, skipper,” I said, “your ship is slowing.”
“I’m resting,” she explained.
“Want me to take over?”
“No.”
“Okay, okay.”
In a few moments, she began paddling again.
But she wasn’t heading toward Big Burnt.
“Better give a few strokes on your port,” I said.
She didn’t answer, and the canoe kept on a steady course, away from Big Burnt, heading toward what looked like the bristling back of a porcupine half-submerged in the water.
“Oh, skip-per,” I called.
“We’ll catch up to them, Steve.” Her voice was so low I had to strain to catch what she was saying. “They won’t miss us.”
The porcupine was closer now. It squatted on the water midway between and about two hundred yards ahead of both Big Burnt and Little Harbor. It was a small island, furry with dense foliage. It looked uninhabited. At least, there were no lights showing anywhere.
“Jean,” I said, “I really think …”
“It’s been too long,” she said.
She didn’t have to say anything else. The tone of her voice, the husky timbre, the hunger said it all. I kept my mouth shut while she brought the canoe into a small cove.
“There are no sites on this island,” she said. “It’s too small.” And again her words said everything there was to say.
The canoe bumped gently against the shorelin
e, and I stood up spraddle-legged, balancing myself for a jump. I leaped out, taking the line with me, looping it around a root jutting out of the ground. Jean put the paddle down and stood up, smoothing out her skirt. She walked carefully to the bow of the canoe, picked up the radio and handed it to me. She reached down for the blanket and the pint, and then climbed ashore.
She handed me the pint, and I squeezed it into the back pocket of my dungarees, feeling the stitching stretch. She hung the blanket over her left arm, then took my arm with her right hand.
“This way,” she said.
I thought about the radio and the pint. Parties were pretty noisy affairs, with singing and shouting and laughing. Why would anyone take a radio to a party? And this was going to be a beer party. Whiskey?
Jean picked her way through the brush with the skill of a woodsman. It occurred to me that she was thoroughly familiar with the small island, and that the trip here had been more than a spur-of-the-moment whim. She held my hand and led me through the bushes and trees. Her hand was warm in mine, and she held it tightly, her fingers squeezing against my flesh.
We came out of the woods suddenly, somewhere in the heart of the island. A high rim of boulders surrounded a small glade there. The floor of the glade was covered with a lush blanket of pine needles, little silver pen strokes in the moonlight.
She stopped and let go of my hand, swinging the blanket out. It hung on the air a moment like a billowing sail, then floated lazily to the ground. She walked around it, straightening the edges, pulling down a corner that had folded over. Then she took the radio from me and set it down alongside the blanket, turning it on and fiddling with the dial.
The radio voices blended into gibberish as she rapidly twisted the dial. And then the throaty sound of a sax section climbed up into the sky, the steady thrum of a piano and bass behind it. The melody pulsed out onto the air, sweet and lingering as a muted trumpet picked it up, pushing the saxes into a harmonic, lilting background.
She stepped closer to me, and I could see the fine planes of her face in the moonlight, the too-full lips, the wide flare of her nose.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
She kicked off her moccasins and came into my arms, her body covering mine like a warm bath. I stepped out of my loafers, and the pine needles were soft beneath my feet as we began moving in time to the music. A piano picked up the melody, wove it into a delicate strain that tamed the breeze. The music spread around us and we became a part of it and a part of each other as we drifted noiselessly over the ground.
