…A Dangerous Thing

by Crider, Bill

  The latter fact made things easier for a pair of prospective cat burglars, since the dean's home was set off from the others, and the adjoining properties had wide yards of their own. Though the front yards were open to the street, the back yards were all surrounded by seven-foot wooden fences. Burns liked the protective aspect of the fences, but he wondered how in the world he and Tomlin were going to climb over one of them.

  They were in Burns's car, parked in the alleyway that led down the block between two rows of houses, an alleyway that was generally traveled only by the local garbage trucks on the days of regularly scheduled pick-ups. Burns had pulled his car in behind a big brown dumpster, but it could still be seen from the street if anyone were looking.

  Burns was worried about any number of things. He was almost sorry he didn't have a pen and paper so he could make a proper list. First, he was worried about climbing the high fence around the dean's back yard. Then there was the fact that they were parked in an alley where any passing patrol car would probably spot them immediately. After that, there was the whole idea of sneaking around someone's house to see if two people were having a conference about a murder one of them had committed. And even if they were, how was anyone on the outside going to hear them? Burns was feeling more like a fool with every passing second, and then Tomlin had to go and mention the goat.

  Burns had forgotten about the goat.

  "I don't see why anyone would want a goat for a pet in the first place," Tomlin said.

  "It's not a pet," Burns said, determined to be politically correct. "It's an 'animal companion.'"

  "The hell it is."

  Burns wasn't going to argue about it. "I don't want to talk about the goat. I want to know what kind of plan you have. If you have one."

  Tomlin tried to look hurt, but he merely looked grotesque. The streetlight made the white flesh of his hands look green, and it made the greasepaint on his face look indescribable.

  "Of course I have a plan," he said. "I've cased the joint."

  "You what?"

  "Cased the joint. I drove through the alley this afternoon after the funeral."

  "Great. How many people do you think took your license number?"

  "Give me a little credit, Burns. We were in Earl's car."

  Burns moaned. He was doing a lot of that lately.

  "Let's go," Tomlin said, ignoring him. "Don't slam the door when you get out."

  Burns closed the door as quietly as he could, but it sounded to him as if someone had dropped one steel slab on top of another one. Tomlin evidently wasn't bothered, and by the time Burns had stopped cringing, Mal was halfway down the block.

  Burns scuttled after him. He was holding a cheap plastic flashlight with weak batteries, the only one he had, but he was afraid to turn it on. The streetlight made things bright enough without it. Burns tried to stay in the shadows.

  They stopped behind another dumpster, practically in front of the gate in Dean Partridge's wooden fence. Tomlin was holding his finger to his lips, a completely unnecessary gesture, since Burns had no intention of saying a word.

  After a second's pause to catch his breath, Tomlin slipped the latch on the gate and stepped through. Burns waited outside, hoping that Tomlin would forget about him, but Mal turned and motioned for Burns to follow. Reluctantly, Burns did.

  "Checked it this afternoon," Tomlin whispered, closing the gate behind him.

  Wouldn't want the goat to escape, Burns thought. He looked around the yard, but the animal companion was nowhere to be seen, though a certain unidentifiable but rank odor indicated that it was there somewhere, or recently had been. There was a low shed off to one side, well away from the fence, and Burns assumed that the shed was the goat's shelter, though it could have been a storeroom for all he knew. If it was the former, he hoped that the goat was shut up inside for the night.

  There were lights on in the dean's none-too-humble two-story abode, all of them on the lower floor. They illuminated yellow rectangles on the green grass, cropped close by the animal companion. Burns looked around again, but he still didn't see the goat.

  Tomlin poked Burns in the shoulder and pointed toward a room that was obviously the kitchen. Eric Holt was sitting at a round table talking to Dean Partridge, who hadn't even bothered to draw the curtains.

  And why bother? Burns thought. After all, no one could see inside from the alley, thanks to the fence. The dean had no reason to suspect that she was being watched by secret commando spies.

  "We gotta get closer," Tomlin whispered. "They're talking about the murder."

  Burns wondered how Tomlin could tell, but he didn't want to ask. He just followed his friend, who was duckwalking again, trying to stay in the shadow. Burns couldn't duckwalk very well; it was uncomfortable and demeaning, but it was better than slithering on his belly.

  They got right up next to the window, staying on the right side, out of the light. Both of them had their heads against the wall, Burns high and Tomlin low, and they could hear the voices through the glass of the window.

  Holt was doing most of the talking. Burns couldn't hear every word that Holt was saying, but he could hear enough to get the gist. And the gist was enough to chill him, though the night was warm and the turtleneck was sweated through.

  What he heard was something about the yearbook.

  "It wasn't there. I used that passkey you gave me and looked. It's gone."

  That was true. The yearbook was in Burns's office, that is it was if Holt was talking about the yearbook that had been on Henderson's desk. And what other yearbook was there to be concerned about?

  That meant that Holt had almost certainly known about the picture of Mitchum, maybe even discussed it with Henderson.

  Dean Partridge said something about it not making any difference. "That picture won't mean a thing to the police. It's just one more photo in a book that's full of them."

  Holt looked worried. Really worried. He said something that Burns didn't catch.

  Partridge waved a hand in reply. "I'm telling you that they won't check every picture. They won't find out."

  As far as Burns was concerned, that cinched it. He'd heard enough. He tapped Tomlin on the shoulder and hiked a thumb toward the fence.

  Tomlin mouthed something that might have been "We just got here," but Burns paid him no mind. He was moving out.

  And then he heard the prancing and pawing of four little hoofs.

  The goat was standing on top of the shed, looking at him. It was probably only Burns's imagination that the hard little horns glittered in the darkness.

  "Son of a bitch," Tomlin said at Burns's back. "It's a guard goat."

  The goat said, "B-a-a-a-a-a-a," and jumped off the shed. It charged across the yard, its head lowered.

  "I take it back," Tomlin said, passing Burns at top speed. "It's an attack goat."

  Tomlin, who was both faster and more agile than Burns, was opening the gate when the goat rammed Burns from behind.

  The horns were just as hard as they'd looked. Burns rose up about a foot, flattened out, and sailed forward. His flashlight flew out of his hand and hit the fence. Burns then hit Tomlin right in the middle of the back.

  Tomlin had the gate half open, but it slammed shut as he crashed into it. He and Burns landed in a writhing heap.

  Burns, who was on top, was the first to his feet. He looked around for the goat, which was glaring at him malevolently. It lowered its head again.

  Burns didn't try to open the gate. He jumped for the fence. His hands grabbed the top and his feet scratched for purchase on the weathered boards. A sharp pain ran up his back. He'd thought his tailbone was completely all right, and maybe it had been. But it wasn't now.

  The goat charged. It missed Burns and hit the fence. There was a sound like a baseball bat hitting a tree.

  The goat, addled by the collision, staggered around beneath Burns, who lost his grip on the fence and fell, landing on top of the goat, which emitted a weak "B-a-a-a-a-a-a" and didn't move. />
  Tomlin scrambled to his feet. "You've killed it. We've gotta get out of here."

  He started to open the gate, but it was too late. Eric Holt and Dean Partridge were beside them. Holt had a flashlight, but it wasn't a cheap plastic one like the one Burns had been carrying. It was made of heavy aluminum and it looked as if it would serve as a blackjack in a pinch.

  "Stay where you are," Holt said. "We've called the police."

  Partridge, who saw her animal companion on the ground, sank to her knees. "Billy," she said. "What have you done to Billy?"

  "He hit his head," Burns told her, holding his back.

  "Burns?" Holt said. "Is that you."

  Burns admitted that it was.

  "What are you doing here?" Holt asked. He looked at Tomlin. "And who's that?"

  Burns told him, then asked, "Have you really called the police?"

  "No," Holt admitted, "but if you've killed Billy, Gwen will have your guts for garters."

  Now that was an interesting picture, but one that Burns didn't care to contemplate. "I didn't hurt him. He just ran into the fence."

  As Burns spoke, the goat suddenly recovered and jumped out of Partridge's arms. It shook its head, dashed across the yard, leapt atop the shed, and looked back at them.

  Dean Partridge stood up. "I want to know what's going on here, Dr. Burns. I hope you and Dr. Tomlin have an explanation for this ridiculous invasion of my property."

  "We have an explanation, all right," Tomlin said. "We know all about you two."

  "There's nothing to know," Holt said. "I was merely discussing a curriculum problem with my academic dean."

  "Sure you were," Tomlin said.

  Holt hefted the flashlight. "You're being very insulting for a common housebreaker, Tomlin."

  "There's no need for a fight," Burns said. "We were stupid to come here like this, but we do have an explanation."

  "And what is it?" Holt asked.

  "We know about Henry Mitchum." Burns said.

  After they were in the house, all four of them sitting at the table, it didn't take Burns long to tell what he knew about Henry Mitchum. Tomlin tried hard not to look surprised as the story unfolded, but he obviously was. No matter how much he'd talked about America's Most Wanted, it was clear that he was shocked to discover that he'd been right.

  Almost as surprised as Burns was when Holt admitted, without any coaxing, that he was indeed Henry Mitchum.

  After the admission, he leaned back in the straight-backed chair and relaxed. There was no tension in his face, and he was smiling.

  "It feels good to say that, to get it out in the open after all these years," he told Burns. "You can't imagine what it's been like."

  That was true. But Burns wanted to know how it had happened. Holt, or Mitchum, was glad to explain. It was as if he was glad to have someone to unburden himself to.

  "I really didn't have anything to do with that bank robbery," he said. "It was just one of those terrible coincidences that no one would ever believe. I knew I'd go to prison, maybe even be executed. So when I had the chance to escape, I took it. You can't blame me for that."

  Tomlin looked as if he could blame him, but Burns urged Holt to go on with the story.

  "I disappeared into the underground," Holt said. "It was easy enough to do in those days, if you had the right contacts. I got a new identity, also easy enough. The real Eric Holt was killed in an automobile accident. So I got a copy of his birth certificate, and after that the rest was easy. I got a Social Security card and a driver's license and became Holt. Grew a beard and came to Texas. That's where I met Gwen."

  Burns, whose tailbone was throbbing, was having trouble thinking of Dean Partridge as Gwen. "Did you meet her at Texas Tech?"

  "That's right. I passed through Lubbock on my way to North Texas. I'd been told that the radical activity on those campuses wasn't so great as to draw much attention to them. I stayed in Lubbock for a few months with some friends of Gwen's. From there I wrote Holt's old high school and had his transcript sent to North Texas. I took the SAT under his name, passed, and enrolled as an over-aged freshman."

  "I went to North Texas about that time," Tomlin said. "I don't remember ever seeing you there."

  "About the only thing I did was go to classes, and when I was in them I sat on the back row and kept my mouth shut. I never went to the Sub, I never went to football games, I never even went to the library unless it was absolutely necessary. When I did, I went at times when there wasn't much activity. During football games, on Saturday mornings, times like that. I kept out of sight."

  Tomlin nodded as if to say that explained things, which it probably did. Burns knew that Mal had undoubtedly gone to all the football games, and he wasn't the type to spend his Saturdays in the library.

  "You pretty much know the rest, I suspect," Holt said to Burns. "I did well in school, stayed out of the limelight as much as possible, never went to any meetings. Things were fine until I came here."

  There was only a slight accusatory tone to the latter remark, and Burns chose to overlook it. He wanted to know more about Holt's relationship with "Gwen," but he thought better of asking about it.

  "Are you ready to come out of hiding now?" he asked.

  Holt grinned wryly behind his beard. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

  "Yeah, you do," Tomlin said. "You can go to jail for the murder of Tom Henderson."

  Holt stiffened, and Dean Partridge looked outraged.

  "I hope you don't think I had anything to do with that," Holt said.

  "Well, we do," Tomlin said. "Henderson knew all about you, and you offed him."

  "'Offed him'?" Holt said.

  "Yeah. Don't tell me you don't understand hippie talk."

  Holt grinned. "I understand, all right, but I didn't 'off' anyone. I was in Gwen's office when it happened."

  "That's right," Dean Partridge said. "We were talking about Tom Henderson."

  "What about him?" Burns asked.

  "About what he knew," Holt said. "I was surprised to run into anyone from San Diego State in a place like this, but there he was. It took him a while to make the connection, but he remembered me."

  Burns rubbed his grease-painted cheek. "Did he show you his yearbook?"

  "Yes. Have you seen it?"

  "I have it in my office. That's how I got onto you."

  "Oh. Well, anyway, that's what we were talking about. I told Gwen that Henderson was onto me, and we were trying to decide what to do about it."

  Tomlin was interested in that point. "So what did you decide?"

  "We decided that I'd been in hiding long enough. There was no need to let Henderson go to the police. It was time for me to come out of hiding. You can't imagine what it's been like all these years, never telling anyone who I really am, never being able to talk to anyone, to trust anyone. I think that even if Henderson hadn't found me out, I would have cracked within the year."

  "What about Gwe—uh, Dean Partridge?" Burns said. "You seem to be able to talk to her."

  "We've corresponded over the years," Dean Partridge said. There was nothing in her voice to indicate that the correspondence was anything but that between two friends. "But sparingly. We thought this would finally be our chance to get together. And you can see how it's worked out."

  "Not very well," Holt said. "Or maybe it has. One way or another I'll be free of the past now."

  "But you were still interested in seeing the yearbook," Burns said. "You came to Henderson's office when I was searching it."

  "Was that you?" Holt said. "I didn't know. I thought maybe it was the police. You scared me half to death. I never ran so fast in my life."

  "I fell down the stairs," Burns said. He didn't mention his tailbone, which was still throbbing.

  Tomlin was obviously disappointed in what he'd heard. "OK, you went to look for the yearbook. But you say you didn't kill Henderson?"

  "That's right."

  "Damn," Tomlin said. "If you didn't, who did?"
r />   Holt said, "I wish I could help you, but I don't have any idea."

  "And neither do I," said Dean Partridge. "But I wish you'd find out, Dr. Burns."

  "I'll try," he said.

  Saying that she wanted to spare Billy any further trauma, Dean Partridge let Burns and Tomlin out the front door. Burns didn't much care about any possible trauma he might cause Billy, but he didn't want even to think about what another encounter might do for his aching tailbone.

  As they walked through the den, Burns saw something sitting on the a wooden game table. He detoured over to look at it more closely.

  "What's this?" he said, looking down.

  "It's a fort made of Lincoln Logs," Dean Partridge said. "I collect things like that."

  "And those little cavalrymen?"

  "They're very authentic. I bought them from a man who makes his own molds. You can't get them in stores."

  "Very nice," Burns said.

  "Are you a collector, Dr. Burns?"

  Burns didn't hear the dean's question. He was thinking.

  "Dr. Burns? I asked if you were a collector."

  "Oh," he said. "No. No I'm not. But that's a very nice fort, and those are wonderful soldiers. Such nice detail."

  The dean smiled. "Thank you. I have others if you'd like to see them."

  "Some other time," Burns said, and he and Tomlin walked on to the door.

  When they were outside, Tomlin asked, "What was that all about?"

  "Never mind," Burns said, but he was smiling.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When they were back in Burns's car, Tomlin lit up a Merit and took a deep drag.

  "You know," he said, letting the smoke trickle out his mouth, "they may not be guilty of murder, but they're sure hypocrites."

  "What do you mean?" Burns asked.

  "All that political correctness crap we've been getting memos about. Did you see a single ashtray in the dean's house?"

  Burns had to admit that he hadn't.