Deadfall

by Sue Henry

  “I almost handed him his walking papers after the second one—when Vern’s brakes—or lack of them—almost got him killed. He was a good man, worked for me eight years. We all figure Moule was responsible—just can’t say how. Unfortunately, even firing him wouldn’t be the last of it. He all but promised he’d retaliate if we didn’t leave him alone, and that we wouldn’t like whatever he had in mind. I don’t go around asking for violence—or sabotage. Long as he does his job this year, I’ll put up with his attitude. Season’s just about over, anyway and I don’t want to fight with the authorities.”

  “He miss any work?”

  “Fair amount. Comes and goes. Works just enough to keep his parole officer off his case, if not happy.”

  “Can you give me specific dates?”

  “Sure. Come on into the office and I’ll show you his record.”

  They walked together across to the portable office and up steps built of raw lumber. Inside were three desks, one clearly belonging to the foreman and the one nearest it empty except for a pile of blueprints. From the third, a thin woman with a tired-looking face glanced up as they entered. Peters waved a casual hand in her direction—“One of our bookkeepers”—then gave her a moment’s attention. “Feeling better, Judy?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Maalox and something to eat took care of it.”

  “Good.” He turned back to the troopers.

  “Well, here’s the time sheets.” He handed Jensen a book that included the summer’s work schedule for each man, and Alex flipped through the pages, paying particular attention to the last two weeks.

  J. B. Moule had missed a considerable amount of work—at least half his work hours in the preceding week. The Tuesday Jessie’s brakes had failed, wrecking the truck, he had worked all day, but Wednesday he hadn’t showed up till just before one o’clock. Whenever the tampering had been done, Alex thought it unlikely it would have been during the day, while she was watching the dog lot. Thursday, the day Jim Bradford’s goat had been injured, Moule hadn’t come to work at all. Friday he was also absent. The other harassment—the rock through the window, the vandalizing of the Knik cabin, the traps in the dog lot—had all been done at night or on the weekend. All Moule’s work record proved was that he could have had the opportunity for most of the trouble.

  “If he was angry at someone, do you think he might harass someone else—someone connected or related to his real target?” Jensen asked Peters.

  “Ah, so that’s the way the wind blows. It’s an interesting question that I won’t ask you to explain.” He paused, considering, then nodded. “I wouldn’t put much of anything past him. He’d do whatever he figured would be most effective, cause the most damage and pain, whatever.”

  “Ever notice what kind of boots he wears?”

  “Can’t say I have. Work boots, pretty much like the rest.”

  They talked for a few minutes more, but gained little. Peters was as uneasy about Moule as McIntire had been—as little inclined to go out of his way to take risks with J.B.’s temper.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to keep our visit to yourself,” Jensen suggested as they were leaving.

  “Hey, I’m not about to let it get back to him that I was talking to the cops.”

  “Please have a word with your bookkeeper, too.”

  “Judy? Sure. She doesn’t know Moule—only comes into the office a couple of days a week. She and her husband handle our books, but they do most of the work at home. She’s okay; but I’ll speak to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Moule doesn’t exactly inspire warm, fuzzy feelings, does he?” Caswell commented as they drove across town to the home address McIntire had provided for Moule.

  “Nope. This feels like a bad one, and all the pieces fit so far. Seems a little odd, though, that he wouldn’t do better at covering his tracks.”

  The Mountain View address turned out to be a duplex that not only needed paint badly, but had a piece of plywood replacing the broken part of a front window. A tired-looking green Chevrolet sedan sat close to the building in the driveway, with room behind it for another vehicle. One rear tire was flat, the axle held off the ground with a concrete block. The front fender on the driver’s side was a mismatched tan replacement.

  “Must not be here,” Cas said. “That can’t be what he uses to get back and forth to work.”

  They could easily hear commentary from a radio or television through the thin walls of the apartment.

  “Somebody’s home,” Alex said. “Must be hard to heat this place in the winter.”

  On the step next door, a youngster of ten or eleven, in a stained jacket with a ripped pocket, sat idly spinning the wheel of an overturned bicycle and watched them walk up to his neighbor’s front door.

  “Hi, there.” Caswell nodded in his direction.

  “He ain’t home,” the kid said, giving the wheel another spin.

  “Who ‘ain’t’?”

  “J.B. ain’t—not since Saturday. Just his old man. You the cops?”

  Caswell didn’t answer the question, but gave Alex a knowing glance and lowered his voice. “Pick it up young, don’t they?”

  Jensen shrugged and shook his head in response, rapped on the door, and stepped back to wait.

  It was soon opened a crack to reveal a discouraged and weary expression on the face of a graying man in his late forties. A yellowing bruise discolored his left cheekbone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Moule?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could we talk to you for a few minutes, please?”

  “What about?”

  “It’s about your son, J.B.”

  The line of his lips thinned and his shoulders drooped as he swung back the door to allow them access to a small living room. Turning his back, he walked away from the door, leaving it open, and switched off the television news he had been watching.

  “Sit, if you want,” he said, waving a hand at a sagging sofa. Jensen did and was immediately sorry, as a broken spring prodded his thigh. Caswell, noting his wince, perched on the arm in self-defense, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes that he didn’t allow to reach his mouth.

  “What’s the kid done now?” Moule’s father asked, seating himself on a wobbly dinette chair, and lighting a cigarette with a kitchen match.

  Kid? Jensen mentally questioned. It had been a long time since J. B. Moule could qualify in that category.

  “Your son lives here with you, right, Mr. Moule?”

  “Yeah, since he got out of jail. At least he usually shows up sometime every couple of days.”

  “He didn’t show up for work today. You have any idea where we might locate him?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t tell me where he’s going, or when. Left…ah…this morning sometime. I don’t know when—early, I guess. Don’t know when he’ll be home. Sometime pretty late, I guess, or maybe tomorrow.”

  He was lying, and not well.

  “Don’t, Mr. Moule. The kid next door says differently. How long has it really been since you last saw your boy?”

  The father looked at them in haggard silence for a minute, saying nothing, clearly knowing that his attempt to cover for his son was not working. Unconsciously he wrung his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together in demoralized frustration. Turning his head, he stared blankly at the dead television screen as he gave up and told them what seemed to be the truth.

  “Saturday.”

  “What time?”

  “About noon.”

  “Say anything at all about where he was going or when he would be back?”

  “No. Like I told you, he doesn’t…”

  His voice faded and he lifted a hand to rub at the bruise on his face.

  “He’s giving you a pretty bad time, isn’t he, Mr. Moule?” Caswell asked suddenly in a quiet voice. “He give you that bruise, too?”

  “No.” The answer came too quickly, making the truth apparent to the troopers.

  “You don’t have to let it be
that way,” Ben told him sympathetically. “You know it’s against his parole. If you want it to stop, we can do something about it—with your help.”

  “No,” he said sharply, shaking his head. “It was just the once…really. He’s not such a bad boy. Just…”

  Yeah, thought Alex sadly. Few of them ever are, at least to their parents—just misguided.

  “Mr. Moule,” he asked, “does J.B. have his own room in this house?”

  A nod.

  “Could we take a look at it, with your permission, please?”

  The elder Moule got to his feet, holding one elbow tight to his ribs, hinting at hurts he was too proud or ashamed to mention. Without a word, he led them to a short hallway and pointed to a closed door at the end.

  “I better tell you,” he said, hanging his head, looking down at a worn spot in the carpet. “You may find a gun in there.”

  He turned and headed back to the small living room, where they heard the sound of television switched back on.

  But the first thing they found was not a weapon. Lying on the floor at the foot of the unmade bed was a pair of work boots covered with dry cement. Carefully turning one over to examine its sole, Jensen held it up for Caswell’s inspection.

  “This look familiar?” he asked.

  There was no mistaking it. The pattern of the tread matched the prints they had found in the woods near the Knik cabin—and the casts Timmons had examined in the crime lab.

  They had searched the room far enough to find a shotgun in the back of the closet when the front door slammed open hard enough to rebound off the living room wall, and the loud roar of a voice angrily shouting stopped them.

  “Goddammit, you fuckin’ old fool. Where the hell are they? You stupid idiot, let the law in here without a warrant?”

  As J.B. came crashing and stomping down the hall to the door of his room, Jensen did not hesitate, but quickly drew the .357 Magnum he usually wore on duty in town. The sight of it momentarily halted the flow of invective the younger Moule was spouting, as well as his approach. He hesitated, glowering, in the doorway, clearly furious at their presence and his father’s part in it.

  He was wider, stronger looking than Alex remembered from the trial, and he noticed again that Moule’s head appeared small compared to the rest of him. As if it belonged to a child, it seemed to sit almost directly on his shoulders without benefit of a neck, emphasized by an upper body so well muscled that it seemed to strain the seams of his gray flannel-lined jacket. He had obviously taken advantage of bodybuilding equipment in prison. His eyes, nose, and mouth were oddly spaced, close together in the middle of his face below a broad forehead, which was accentuated by a receding hairline that bared the front half of his skull, except for a fringe over his ears.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing? You got a warrant? If not, get the fuck out of my house.”

  “We have your father’s permission, so stop right there, J.B., and don’t make any moves or you’ll regret them. Lean over, put your hands on the wall, and spread your legs. You know the drill.”

  “Fuck you. You got nothing. You can’t just fuckin’—”

  “Do it,” Alex barked at him, remembering Moule’s threats during and after the trial, as well as his reportedly vicious temper and attitude. “If you don’t do it now, I’ll assume you’re resisting arrest and add threatening an officer to the list. You’re still on parole, Moule. Don’t try it.”

  It had been a long time since he had seen such total, allconsuming rage on anyone’s face. For a long moment, Moule swayed in the door, clenching and unclenching his fists, seeming to exude heat, using every ounce of his shrewdness and cunning to assess the balance of the situation and his chances of upsetting it. As Alex returned his glare, weapon ready, and gave him not an inch of opportunity, he finally turned and stiffly assumed the position the trooper had demanded, still alert and ready to cause trouble.

  Taking no chances, Caswell quickly handcuffed and searched him, turning up a handgun and lifting a large, exceedingly sharp hunting knife from a scabbard on his belt.

  “Sit down, Moule. I want you on the floor and away from the wall.”

  He complied resentfully and sat awkwardly while Jensen read him his rights, and, still carefully guarding his prisoner, turned to the next steps in the arrest.

  “Will you go call for some backup and the investigation team, Cas? I want them to take this room apart—and whatever vehicle he’s driving. And bring me a large evidence bag for these boots, okay? We’ll take them on over to John.

  “I think your arrogance has finally caught up with you, Moule. The weapons alone are parole violation enough to put you back inside. That and some new charges should keep you there for a long, long time. And you must know there are a lot of people who won’t be the least bit sorry—starting with me.”

  “New charges? What new charges? You got nothin’ on me.”

  “Don’t count on it. We’ll talk when we get you to Cook Inlet Pretrial.”

  J.B.’s father, who had remained in the living room, was visibly shaken as he watched his son—still tossing curses in his direction—removed to the back of the patrol car that had quickly appeared. But he said nothing, and Jensen thought that, along with the distress in the man’s eyes as he silently watched the arrest take place, he detected a shred of relief.

  20

  At six o’clock Monday morning, Jessie awakened to a world gone berserk.

  Fastening aside the blankets that covered the front windows, she looked out into nature’s chaos. The storm had increased to major proportions, battering the island with rain that pounded from heavy, dark clouds, barely visible through roiling mist and wind-driven salt spray. Huge waves assaulted the beach, crashing upon rock and driftwood, hurling foam into the air. Though it had turned and was on the ebb, the tide was high enough to make her appreciate two enormous logs, half sunk into the sand between the beach and the house, that deflected most of the waves and prevented them from washing closer. Everything outdoors was so wet it was impossible to tell which was seawater and which was rain.

  She made a dash to the outhouse and came back streaming water that had blown through every possible opening in the slicker she had worn. Changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, she hung her partially soaked sweats by the new fire and grinned ruefully at Tank, who had also been out and now lay steaming, as close to the heat as be could comfortably tolerate.

  “Not much reason to wash my face this morning, is there, guy? Couldn’t get much wetter.”

  Nevertheless, she heated water and luxuriated in its warmth, while coffee brewed. Whatever was happening with the weather, it felt good to be clean.

  A gust of wind, heavy with ocean spray, hit and drenched the front windows with a crash, startling her and making her wonder momentarily if they would hold or shatter. Then she remembered that they had endured for many years, and was awed at the resilience of glass.

  The beach house had never been intended as solid shelter against inclement weather. Constructed primarily of uninsulated planks, it was rife with tiny cracks that allowed heat to be snatched away. The most comfortable spot to be found was next to the woodstove in the fire pit, where she could hear the wind howl resentfully down the chimney pipe, a giant bellows encouraging the flames. Settling by it, with a sweater around her shoulders and a mug of coffee between her hands, she watched the turmoil and commotion of the gale that swept around her drafty refuge.

  Intensely powerful, almost menacing, the results of the storm were also extremely beautiful, especially the waters of the cove. Each deep wave that threw itself furiously upon the beach inspired a low rumble that was more vibration than sound as the stones, large and small, growled and shifted under the water’s weight. From each incoming crest, spray was whipped by the wind into spume that flew out horizontally like smoke. Jessie could understand why this extreme churning reminded others of galloping horses with manes streaming in the current of their forceful passing, the thunder of their hooves in
the pounding of the breakers. But to her, the wild surf seemed more closely related to the swift running of ravenous gray wolves through an Arctic blizzard of fiercely flying snow.

  The rhythm of the sea was fascinating and strangely hypnotic. Jessie watched for over an hour, refilling her coffee and making toast, replacing the sweater with a wool shirt that she pulled on over her sweatshirt when she grew cool. She added more wood to the fire periodically, but always returned to her observation.

  At eight, she tried to call Alex and swore when the fury of the storm resulted in nothing but static on the line. Assuming he would check and realize that the absence of a call was the fault of the weather in the bay, she was not terribly concerned, but would have felt more satisfied had she been able to reach him. She wanted to relate her encounter with Rudy the night before and assure him that she had successfully solved the mystery of the island’s intruder, let him know that the older man was no threat.

  At nine, she went out again twice into the driving rain: once to refill a two-gallon water container from the stream near the back door, and a second time to retrieve eggs and sausage from the cooler behind the house. She returned only damp around the edges, having donned waterproof pants, slicker, boots, and a sou’wester hat in anticipation. These, however, dripped pools onto the floor by the door when she hung them up to dry. She took the food to the counter by the propane stove, where she grated potatoes for browning, cut fat slices from another of the loaves she had baked the week before, made a second pot of coffee, and set out a skillet ready for use when Rudy appeared.

  But Rudy did not appear. By ten o’clock, she was growing concerned. By eleven, convinced something was wrong, she considered the options and decided on a trip across the meadow that had once been a lagoon, to see if the weather had somehow caused the A-frame to collapse, trapping him in the rubble.

  As Jessie got back into her rain gear and rubber boots, Tank remained unmoving in his place beside the warm stove, giving her a look that told her he was not excited by the idea of another trip outdoors.