No Way Home

by MacDonald, Patricia

  A number of cars were parked in the small dirt lot across the street from the hotel, including the sheriff’s car. Jordan parked his own car and went in through the lobby. The parlor was hung with heavy draperies and lace and filled with stiff, ornately decorated Victorian furniture as it must have been in its glory days. The main desk was carved mahogany and behind it were the pigeonholes for the guests’ mail and messages. From the number of empty mailboxes hung with keys, it appeared that the hotel had precious few overnight guests, but the dining room was doing a lively local business.

  Jordan walked up to the hostess and was about to ask for the sheriff when his gaze fell upon a solitary figure at a corner table. The fringed lamp on the tabletop weakly illuminated the face of Royce Ansley.

  “I’m joining the sheriff,” Jordan explained as he entered the dining room and crossed over to where Royce was seated. A waitress approached with a wicker basket of fresh hush puppies just as Jordan arrived at the table. Royce thanked the waitress and looked up at Jordan impatiently.

  “May I join you, Sheriff?” Jordan asked.

  Royce looked at him steadily. “It appears that you’re going to.”

  Jordan pulled out the chair opposite Royce and sat down. The base of the table was an old sewing machine. Jordan rested his feet on the wrought-iron treadle. “I’ve got a few things to say to you,” he said.

  Royce ate a hush puppy and wiped his greasy fingers deliberately on a napkin. “Well, get on with it.”

  “Look, let’s be frank,” said Jordan. “You know that I went up to Tyler’s school. Well, I found out that Pink warned him. And Lillie has filled in the rest. About my daughter’s death, and the cover-up you and Pink concocted.”

  Royce’s face was very white in the lamplight, but he did not respond.

  “And much as I’d enjoy seeing you suffer,” Jordan said, “I may as well tell you that I have agreed to keep quiet about this and let you handle it among yourselves.”

  “Well,” Royce said calmly, “I think it is a good idea for you not to involve yourself.”

  “I am involved,” Jordan said coldly. “It’s my daughter we’re talking about. I’ve just agreed to it because it’s what Lillie wants.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t think of you as Michele’s father,” said Royce. “Despite this recent show of zeal on your part.”

  Jordan smacked his hand down on the table and the hush puppies jumped in their basket. “Well, I am her father whether you like it or not. And you are a liar. Now don’t tempt me to change my mind.” The other diners turned to stare at the sheriff and his companion.

  “Don’t bother showing your temper to me,” Royce said in a low voice when the hum of conversation had resumed in the dining room. “I’ll tell you right now, with all that’s gone on, I’m not about to be intimidated by the likes of you.”

  The two men stared defiantly at one another. Then Royce picked up his iced tea, took a long sip, and put it down again. “Thanks to your meddling,” he said slowly, “my son has left school and run off to God knows where.”

  Jordan did not flinch. “Oh, I suppose I should have just stayed out of it and let the sheriff do his duty as he saw fit.”

  “Yes,” said Royce, “you should have stayed out of it. I know why you’re here. You think I don’t? You searched me out so you could look down your nose at me. Make yourself out to be some sort of hero in this whole thing. Well, I’ll tell you something, mister. My opinion of you hasn’t changed one whit. You come storming into town here, the avengin’ father, and stick your snout into everyone’s business where it doesn’t belong and now you’re going to make the grand gesture and ride out again. Well, you don’t impress me one bit. Leaving is your specialty. Being a father—you don’t know a thing about it. And don’t bother threatening me with telling. You won’t tell. You couldn’t stick around long enough to see it through.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Jordan said loudly, and then lowered his voice as the other diners turned to stare again. “Since when is my character the issue here? You’re the one who abused your office. You’re the one whose son is a murderer,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  Royce’s eyes were stony. He avoided Jordan’s gaze and began to look for the waitress. After a moment Royce looked back at Jordan. “I don’t owe you any explanation,” he said. “You can sit there till you rot. You’ll get nothing from me. I will tell you this. My son is out there somewhere, on the run, nowhere to turn, and it’s because of you and your interference. God knows where he went. He may be out of the country by now. And if I am unable to find him, I hold you responsible for that.”

  Jordan sat back in his chair. “You’re unbelievable,” he said. “I mean, I know that the best defense is a good offense, but aren’t you carrying this a little far? Now you blame me for Tyler’s disappearance?”

  “You’re goddamned right I do,” Royce said grimly.

  The two men sat in awkward silence as a waitress appeared and placed a platter of fried catfish and vegetables in front of Royce.

  “Do you want anything?” she asked Jordan.

  “He’s not staying,” said the sheriff.

  Just then an agitated Wallace Reynolds appeared at the door of the dining room and hurried over to the table where Royce and Jordan were seated.

  “What is it, Wallace?” Royce asked irritably.

  “Sheriff,” said the deputy, “I just got a call over to the jailhouse. Some woman seen a body out at the Millraney farm. In the well. We got to get a rescue team up there. Somebody’s got to go down there and try and bring him up.”

  “Is he alive?” asked the sheriff.

  “Don’t know. It’s too dark to see down there. He’s not answering though.”

  The sheriff sighed and lifted his napkin off his lap. “All right. Call up Estes Conroy. His jeep’s got a winch on it. Better call the ambulance.”

  “I did,” said Wallace.

  Royce looked down at the plate of food. “It’s just as well. I’ve lost my appetite.” He looked unsmilingly at Jordan. “Don’t you have to be leaving town?” he asked.

  “Tonight,” said Jordan. “It can’t be soon enough to suit me.

  Chapter 27

  PINK WENT BACK AGAIN TO THE RIM OF THE WELL and looked down into it, as if drawn by a magnet to the ghastly sight. It was dark now, and the flashlight he had found in his car’s glove compartment was too weak to illuminate much, but when he angled it just right he could see the twisted legs and a torso wedged down there in an awkward position. There were dark stains on the clothes, which Pink figured must be blood. It looked like the guy was only wearing one shoe. The other one must have ended up on the bottom of the well when the poor soul went down. Pink couldn’t see a face, or even the head. For one awful moment he hoped the body still had a head attached. Then he chided himself for the gruesome thought. The young couple who had wanted to look at the farm, the DuPres, sat huddled on the back steps of the old farmhouse. Pink had urged them to go inside and make themselves comfortable while they waited for the police to come. After all, the house was fully furnished. But the woman absolutely refused. She said she never wanted to go into that house again.

  So much for that sale, Pink thought as he lingered by the well and strained to hear if anyone was coming down the road. It was lucky the phone still worked up here, so that he was able to call for help. The guy in the well might possibly still be alive, but Pink doubted it seriously. Pink and the DuPre fellow had called down repeatedly, their anxious voices echoing off the stones, but there had been no response.

  Pink could hear the woman complaining to her husband, “I just want to get out of here,” and the young man was placating her, promising her they would leave as soon as they talked to the police.

  “I’m cold,” she grumbled.

  Well, go inside, for chrissakes, Pink thought. Nobody told you to sit on those steps. That’s what you get. Actually, he felt unreasonably angry with her anyway. He hadn’t wanted to go out there
this evening in the first place. He was exhausted and he just wanted to relax at home, especially now that Lillie was back. But he had gone anyway, and they had seemed to be making some real progress. The man was definitely interested, and she had warmed up a lot toward the old place since their first visit. She kept mentioning things that she liked and acting as if all the repairs were minor, although Pink knew better. But he could tell that the husband had her three-quarters convinced that this was the place for them, and Pink was getting that old optimistic feeling that he was going to be able to close the deal. And then she had asked about the well.

  “Is it dry, or does it still have water in it?” she had asked, as if she was familiar with the uses of a well. The fact was that Pink didn’t really know. No one had ever gotten that far along in an inspection of the Millraney farm. They usually just came and went after a cursory look. One woman, in fact, had refused to get out of the car, much to her husband’s embarrassment.

  It was the women, Pink reflected, who always caused trouble in these things. The men noticed the good things about a place and always acted vaguely apologetic for wasting Pink’s time, as if showing houses was somehow inconvenient for him. But the women picked at everything. They were always the negative ones, criticizing the taste of the previous owners and always acting suspicious, as if you were trying to cheat them of something.

  It was just the way Lillie had been when they bought their house. She’d had that dissatisfied look on her face that gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had explained to her over and over why it was the best deal for them, but he could tell she wasn’t exactly delighted with it. As long as he could remember, it had always been that way with Lillie. No matter how hard he tried to please her, she always had that skittish look in her eye. And it always gave him that knot in his stomach.

  Pink glanced down the road again. What was keeping them? He could hardly believe the way this day had turned out. Well, the important thing was that Lillie had seen the light and come back. And Grayson’s future was secure. Pink had actually felt pretty good by the time he arrived at Millraney’s with the DuPres. Pretty fortunate. He never saw this thing, coming out of left field, as it were. The woman had gone over to the well and, using his flashlight, looked down it, and before she had time to straighten up, hitting her head against the bucket, and start screaming, the deal for the property had been queered.

  The bucket had begun to bounce crazily from side to side, and Pink had to steady it with his hands before he and the fellow could look down the well and see what it was that had set her off. Then he couldn’t blame her for screaming. He felt like letting out a yell himself when he saw it.

  The sound of a siren and the rumble of cars on the dirt road made Pink look up. He rushed out to the edge of the property with his flashlight and began to gesture importantly toward the driveway.

  The ambulance was the first to arrive, its pulsating red light a blur against the evening sky. Pink indicated a spot next to the Oldsmobile as the DuPres jumped up from their seat on the steps and ran out anxiously to greet the medical team. Two attendants in white jackets spilled out of the van, and there was a general commotion as Pink and the DuPre couple tried to explain to them about the well and other cars began to appear down the road. The attendants began to prepare the equipment in the van for any contingency. Pink ran down the driveway and called out to Estes Conroy, who was coming slowly up the road in his Bronco.

  Pink led the slow-moving Jeep across the lawn, and the driver parked it about ten feet from the well. Two police cars pulled into the driveway. The sheriff, still in his Sunday clothes, was in one, and Wallace Reynolds and another deputy, Floyd Peterson, were in the other.

  Royce got out of his car and walked up to Pink. The DuPres hurried over to the sheriff as if he were a warm fire on a cold night. Pink and the sheriff nodded perfunctorily. “What happened?” Royce asked.

  “My husband and I were looking at the property,” the distraught woman blurted out, “and I was just checking the well and I saw him.”

  The driver of the ambulance, a red-headed fellow in a blue uniform, joined them. “Do we know if he is still alive?” he asked. One of the attendants, whose white smock seemed to glow in the darkness, leaned in to hear the answer.

  “I doubt it,” said Pink.

  “We called to him repeatedly but no answer,” said the DuPre fellow.

  “How will you get him out?” Mrs. DuPre asked in a shrill voice.

  Royce walked up to the well and examined it calmly. He could see the twisted legs dimly inside, but nothing else. He turned around and called out to Estes Conroy, who was winding a rope around the winch on the front of his Bronco. “How are you coming, Estes? Hurry up with that winch.”

  “Almost ready, Sheriff.”

  Royce turned to Wallace and the young deputy. “Floyd,” he said, “will you do the honors?”

  The young deputy nodded grimly. “Yessir.”

  Estes, a burly man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a Cat cap on his head, approached them with the rope in his hands. “Who’s wearing the loop?” he asked.

  Floyd Peterson stepped forward and Wallace helped Estes to secure the loop around the young man’s chest. The ambulance driver checked the knot and then made a loop at the end of another length of rope for Floyd to take down the well.

  “If he is alive,” said the male attendant, “try to find out where his injuries are. We’ll have to be very careful bringing him up.”

  Floyd nodded quickly, eager to begin his mission of mercy.

  “It’ll be slippery in there,” Royce advised him. “Keep a good foothold on the sides. Wallace, you hold the other rope.”

  Wallace nodded and took his position at the side of the well as Floyd, his athletic silhouette lit by the headlights of the gathered cars, climbed up and lowered himself into the well. Estes returned to the Bronco to prepare to operate the winch.

  A silence fell over everyone as the young deputy began his descent and then, all at once, the onlookers erupted into nervous chatter.

  Pink, who was still standing beside Royce, rocked back and forth on his heels. “Not much of a way to spend Sunday night,” he said uneasily.

  Royce walked away from Pink and the others and folded his arms across his chest. Pink followed after him. They were out of earshot of the crowd.

  “Lillie came home,” Pink said eagerly. “She decided we were right.”

  “I heard. I just had a visit from her ex-husband.”

  “That bum!” Pink exclaimed, and the sheriff glared at him so that he lowered his voice. “What did he want?”

  “Oh, he tracked me down at the Winchester.” Royce sighed. “He just wanted to threaten me a little bit.”

  “That son of a bitch,” cried Pink. “He told Lillie he’d stay out of it. I hate that son of a bitch.”

  “You all right?” Wallace yelled anxiously down the well.

  “What happened?” Royce called out, stepping forward.

  “He slipped against the side,” Wallace said. “He’s okay.”

  Mrs. DuPre clung to her husband, who whispered reassuringly to her. They did not want to see what was going to come out of the well and, like everybody else, they could not turn their eyes away.

  Pink sidled up close to Royce, wanting to discuss this news about Jordan, but the sheriff seemed to be absorbed in the rescue effort. Pink tapped him on the arm persistently, and Royce turned and stared at him, his face drawn and gray in the weak illumination of the gathered headlights.

  “I thought he left town,” Pink complained. “How come he is still hanging around?”

  “Because he’s enjoying himself,” Royce said wearily. “Anyway, he says he’s leaving tonight. He claims he’ll keep quiet.”

  “He better keep quiet,” Pink fumed. “I swear, if he comes back here and starts to bother my family…”

  People were leaning over the edge of the well, shouting encouragement to Floyd, who had reached the body and wa
s attempting to maneuver it.

  “Is he alive?” the ambulance driver called down.

  Floyd’s voice drifted up, faint and hollow. “Blood everywhere. Dead.” A sorrowful hush fell over the spectators and then, one by one, they began solicitously to urge the deputy on, directing him as he tried to shift the dead man’s weight to secure him.

  Royce gazed unseeing at the commotion by the well. “I don’t think he’ll bother anymore. He was only in it for the excitement. You know, he probably thought he could get some publicity out of it.”

  “Well, he sure managed to get Lillie all worked up about it. I think I’ve finally got her calmed down, and I just want to put this whole mess behind us,” said Pink.

  A weird, strangulated cry went up from the deputy inside the well, but it was drowned out by the advice of bystanders.

  “Haul him up, Estes,” Wallace ^Reynolds called out as Floyd signaled from below.

  “Tell the sheriff,” they heard a weak voice call out.

  “Tell the sheriff what?” the ambulance driver called down as the sound of the motor and the whine of the winch muffled any response.

  “It was all Jordan Hill’s doing,” Pink insisted.

  “It was all our doing,” Royce said in a dull voice.

  The rope on the winch creaked, and the motor hummed and people shouted directions as Floyd Peterson, his face white and sweaty, appeared above the edge of the well. His eyes scanned the waiting crowd and clamped onto Royce.