—Sparse Grey Hackle (Alfred Miller)
Wally was standing on the marina dock, a five-gallon can of gasoline in one hand, and a look of surprise on his face as Osborne and Lew ran towards him. Ray was still unfolding his frame from the backseat of the cruiser.
“What is this? No sooner do I tell you two that Jerry O’Brien never has visitors than—whaddaya know? This morning he shows up with a woman. And now you’re back. What’s goin’ on?”
“A young woman? Tall, dark hair?” asked Lew.
“Couldn’t tell you exactly. Dark hair for sure, but all I could see was the back of her head. I was over in the bar when I heard someone drive up. By the time I stepped outside, the boat was pulling away from the dock. Fastest I’ve ever known that guy to move.” “We need a boat, Wally,” said Osborne. “Police business.” Wally’s genial expression faded.
“Hope it’s nothing I said. Didn’t mean to get the guy in trouble. That all happened years ago—”
“Nothing to do with you, Wally,” said Lew. “We need a boat.”
“Take what you want. They’re all gassed and ready.” He waved a hand at six small fishing boats with ten-horsepower outboard motors, tethered to the dock. On the nearby shore were two kayaks and an overturned canoe. Paddles were stacked against a tree.
Ray stood off to one side, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, studying the lake. Off in the distance were three fishing boats and one inboard towing a water-skier.
“You fish this lake, Ray?” asked Lew.
“Oh, yeah, got a great sandbar for bluegills. Now if that’s O’Brien’s place out there,” he said pointing to a peninsula on the northwest side of the lake, half-hidden by a small island, “then I think it’s just as well we take a canoe—quieter. Otherwise, we’ll end up having to cut the motor and row anyhow. Doc, you and I can paddle fast. Chief, we’ll put you in the middle.”
A chirping sound from Lew’s waist caused the three men to turn and stare. Unbuttoning a small leather case slung alongside the holster for her gun, Lew pulled out a bulky cell phone identical to the one she’d given Molly. She raised a hand as she looked at the small screen in the handset, listened for a brief moment, then hit a button and held the phone out in front of her. “Caller ID on here shows it’s Molly—I’ll put her on speaker so we can all hear….”
But it wasn’t only Molly on the phone. As they listened another voice, high and reedy, a voice Osborne recognized, was heard: Jerry O’Brien. A Jerry O’Brien who appeared to be unaware he was on a conference call—that everything he had to say was being transmitted across the open water, the sound of his voice as clear as Little Moccasin Lake.
“All I want from you is why? And you don’t need that gun, Jerry. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t even know where we are.”
Unlike O’Brien’s, Molly’s voice was muffled as if from a distance. Later, they would learn that as she was shoved through the door into the cabin, she had stumbled and fallen. In the midst of picking herself up, she managed to unzip her backpack wide enough to reach in and press the push-to-talk button on the phone, hoping that Lew—wherever she was—might hear.
“What do you want to know? Why I killed your parents? Or why I plan to finish what I started?”
“I saw what you did to my mother. Why did you have to be so brutal?”
“Can you hear okay?” asked Lew, holding the phone out as Ray and Osborne turned over the canoe and slid it into the water. “I’ve got the volume up as loud as it’ll go.” At the concern on Osborne’s face, she said, “Don’t worry, Doc, they can’t hear anything from this end. She’d have to click off to hear me.” Lew grabbed two paddles, which she cradled in one arm, keeping the phone held out in front of her.
But the phone was quiet. Lew checked to be sure it was on.
“Please, Molly, please keep him talking,” said Ray, climbing into the backseat of the canoe. Wally held it steady as Lew and Osborne got in.
Still no sound from the phone.
“C’mon, Molly, you’ve got to keep him going till we get there,” said Lew, both hands tight on the phone. “Maybe she’s saying something and we can’t hear….”
As Wally got ready to give the canoe a shove into deeper water, Lew said, “Wally, as fast as you can, call Marlene at the station, tell her where we are. Tell her to radio Todd to hold off on approaching O’Brien’s property until he hears from me.”
“Got it,” said Wally as he heaved them forward toward the peninsula.
Osborne and Ray thrust their paddles deep, stroking fast. “What do you think, Ray?” asked Osborne. “Ten minutes to reach that peninsula?”
Before Ray could answer, they heard Molly’s voice.
“Someone told me you killed my mother out of revenge. Revenge for what?” asked Molly. “You were the one breaking up the family.”
“Your mother was a shrill, selfish bitch. She didn’t deserve your father. And the things she said to him about me were … not very nice.”
“What you said to me about my mother that night you locked me in the basement. Those were not nice words, Jerry.”
“Careful, Molly. You’re starting to sound like your mother.”
“So? You brought me here for a reason. You said you plan to finish what you started. But why didn’t you do away with me when you wiped out my family? What made you stop?” “I meant to. I had every intention, but when I walked into your room and found you in your bed so scared, you put your arms up, and you were so happy to see me. You trusted me and … I made a mistake leaving you alive. Did you ever get that birthday card I sent?”
“No.”
“Your aunt never told you about it?”
“No. When did you do that?”
“Good girl,” said Lew. “Anything to keep him talking….”
The phone was silent for a few beats, then O’Brien spoke. “Your mother died the way she did because she ruined things. Your father and I loved each other. I don’t know if you can understand that. We could have had a good life together. But somehow she convinced him to stay. Some lie she told.”
“You don’t know that. My father loved her first. Maybe through all the marriage counseling, through all their fights over you—maybe they found they had something between them still. I mean—we were a family.”
“All I know,” Jerry’s voice took on a monotone, “is that when I looked in the basement window that night and saw your mother doing her ironing, looking so goddamned self-satisfied—she was humming, for Christ’s sake!—I knew right then it was she who ruined it all.”
“Are you saying that at the last minute, my dad changed his mind? He and my mom weren’t going to divorce?”
“That’s what he told me when I called that night. We were supposed to leave on a business trip that Monday. He said he wasn’t going, that he was resigning from the paper.”
“And so you killed them.”
A low chuckle. “I have a way of going off sometimes.”
“What you did to my mom—”
“Stop talking about her. She was a horrible woman.”
Silence. Then Molly’s muffled voice again, “She might have been horrible to you, but she was my mom.” She sounded on the verge of tears.
“I should have been your mother.”
Again, a long silence. Osborne wondered where Molly was finding the strength to keep going.
“I—I … how could that be?”
“Your parents should have divorced, your mother should have gone her way—I was giving her a lot of money. Then your father and I would have raised you and your brother. Your aunt must have told you why your father was leaving your mother: he loved me.”
“I was three years old when it all happened. I’ve never known this story. Jerry,” Molly asked, “why on earth did you marry me? I mean, what were you thinking—”
“I’ve always had a hunch you might come back to this town. And when you did, and I first saw you, all I could think about was how much you remind me of your father.
You sound like him, you have his mannerisms—it’s uncanny. I thought maybe … but you’re just like your mother in so many ways, too, and that’s why—that’s why—”
“That’s why this has to happen, is that what you’re trying to say?” “Not sure. Not sure about what I’m trying to say. But I’m damn sure about what I plan to do.”
“And you’ll get away with it, too. Just like that poor Indian boy who was accused of the murders and committed suicide—”
“That wasn’t my fault. The cop in charge back then was so sure he had the right suspect.” O’Brien laughed. “He made it so easy. He came up with all this evidence—none of which made any sense—but no one questioned him.”
“I was told there were semen stains on my pajamas. But you didn’t really hurt me, did you?”
“You were a little girl—of course I didn’t hurt you.”
“Then why—”
“Once I decided to leave you alive, I thought it would be a good idea if the authorities thought they were looking for a rapist. Worked. That’s what prompted the cop to nail that kid—he had a record of assaulting women.
“Doesn’t it amaze you, Molly, how murder is so easy? Look at today—no one knows you’re here. When you don’t show up in town, everyone will assume you’ve left me, that I’m the lonely, abandoned old man who should’ve known better. Say, want something to eat?”
“Something to eat?” Molly sounded incredulous.
“Yeah, I’m hungry, and I’ve got a few more things I want to say. I’m in no rush. I’ve waited years for this.” The tone of O’Brien’s voice caused the hair to rise on the back of Osborne’s neck. They were closing in on the peninsula, and none too soon.
“See the island off the point,” said Ray in a low voice. “I think we should circle around that and approach from the far side so he doesn’t see us coming.” Osborne nodded.
“I don’t care for anything to eat, thank you. I don’t feel very well. Would you mind if I used the bathroom?”
“All right—but don’t lock the door. I don’t need any funny business, like you locking yourself in there.”
“Oh, no. I just—feel a little sick right now.”
A sound of shuffling. Then footsteps closer to the phone. Osborne imagined O’Brien had enough common courtesy not to follow Molly all the way into the bathroom.
At least a minute went by. “What are you doing in there?” asked O’Brien.
From far away they could hear Molly say, “Just opening the window for a little air. One minute, okay?”
The canoe was nearing the island. They were about a hundred yards out from the dock fronting O’Brien’s shoreline. The cabin, situated on a rise, was visible from the water.
“Molly?” Footsteps, then O’Brien’s voice sounding distant. “Molly—”
The sound of a door slamming, then a string of expletives. “Molly? Molly!” His voice could barely be heard.
“I’ll bet she went out that window!” said Ray. “I sure as hell would have.”
A sharp bark from the shore. “He’s shooting at her!” said Lew, reaching for her gun. She fired twice into the air, then shouted. “Loon Lake Police! Put down your gun, O’Brien.” “Careful, Chief. We’re next,” said Ray, swinging the canoe towards the island as Osborne stroked as fast as he could.
“I figured that,” said Lew. “Anything to give her time to get away.”
“He sees us,” said Osborne, catching a glimpse of a figure standing outside on the cabin deck. “Heads down—and pray.” They heard the bark of the rifle even as the bullet slammed into the canoe.
“Anyone hurt?” asked Osborne. Two more strokes, and they would have cover.
“No, but the boat’s sinking,” said Lew as water rushed in through the holes where the bullet had passed through the sides of the aluminum canoe.
“Thank the Lord that guy’s a lousy shot,” said Ray. “Hold on, we’re close enough to the island, we’ll make it.”
“Yeah? Lot of good that does us,” said Lew. “How do we get from the island to shore?”
thirty
Used trout stream for sale. Must be seen to be appreciated.
—Richard Brautigan
“Shallow here. We can wade,” said Ray, letting himself over the side of the boat. Osborne and Lew followed, anxious to keep the canoe from sinking farther.
“If you two will get this canoe near shore and dump the water, I know an old Indian trick that’ll fix us up fast,” said Ray, pushing ahead. Leaping over rocks and boulders, he disappeared into the pines that were thick on the island while Lew and Osborne managed the boat. By the time they had the water out, Ray was back, hands sticky with globs of pine pitch. Within seconds he had plugged the bullet holes.
“You think that’ll hold?” asked Osborne.
“Long enough to get us to shore,” said Ray, shoving the canoe into the water. It floated fine.
“Here’s the deal,” said Ray. “I’ve fished this lake so many times—I know the other side of this island extends almost to the shoreline. If we go ‘round the island and head in from that side, we can make it across open water in less than a minute—two at the most. That’ll put us about five hundred feet from O’Brien’s dock and well hidden by trees. Unless he’s right on the beach, he won’t be able to see us—and for all he knows he sunk our boat. I’ll bet you anything he’s up searching for Molly in the woods behind his place.”
They cleared the open water in the minute Ray had predicted. Though they stayed hunkered low in the canoe just in case, there was no gunfire. Osborne and Ray raced to pull the canoe up on shore and had just turned to follow Lew when they heard the sound of tires coming from the direction of O’Brien’s cabin. All three stopped.
“Dear God, I hope it’s not Todd,” said Lew. “He’s driving right into trouble.”
As they ran along the shoreline toward O’Brien’s dock, a car door slammed. Hiding behind a stand of young balsam, they looked up towards the cabin. No sign of Molly—or Jerry O’Brien. No police cruiser either. Only a vintage black Cadillac.
“Damn!” said Lew. “What the hell is Lillie Wright doing out here?”
Before she had finished her sentence, they had the answer. Once, twice, three times a trigger was pulled. They waited at the edge of the woods for a long moment. Then Lew darted across the yard, her Sig Sauer out. Fifty feet from the cabin, she positioned herself behind the thick trunk of a basswood.
“O’Brien—Loon Lake Police. Drop your gun and come out.”
The door opened and a stocky figure in black, a hefty-looking handgun in her right hand, hurried out onto the deck. “Lewellyn! Where’s Molly? What did he do to Molly?”
“Lillie! What possessed you? The man has a rifle.”
“He did,” said the old woman. “Came after me with it, too. Wouldn’t've shot him otherwise.”
“But you have no business—”
“We’ll discuss that later. Right now—where’s Molly?”
Osborne and Ray ran around to the back of the cabin. Lew and Lillie followed. The bathroom window was wide open, the screen on the ground.
“She had to have run straight for the woods,” said Ray. “Yep, look at this, Doc.” Ray pointed to a spot a few steps from the cabin where the ground, soggy enough from the previous night’s rain, held the slight impression of a sneaker.
“Don’t worry, Lillie. I’m sure Molly’s safe,” said Lew. “We heard enough through the walkie-talkies that I’m sure she made it through the window in plenty of time to reach cover. If she didn’t, we’d see blood somewhere, and we don’t.”
“Lew’s right,” said Osborne. He watched as Lew, who had spotted Molly’s backpack on the floor just inside the door to the cabin, reached to pull out the cell phone. “Still on,” she said, holding it up like a flag of victory. “Damn good battery.”
“What makes you think she’s not lost in those woods?” asked Lillie, hands on her hips, cheeks waggling. She reminded Osborne of Rumplestiltskin ready to
do the anger dance. “I demand you send out a search team.”
“Lillie, we’ve got the best tracker in the county looking for her. You know what they say about Ray Pradt: The man can see around the corner to tomorrow. Now how ‘bout we give him thirty minutes and see what happens. You agree to that?”
Lillie leveled her eyes at Lew, threw her shoulders back as if she was about to argue, then shrugged and said, “Okay.”
Molly was still running when Ray caught up to her. It took awhile to calm her down, and it was nearly an hour before they came walking down the drive to O’Brien’s cabin. Lillie, sitting on the deck with Osborne, saw them first. She jumped to open the door and holler at Lew who was on the phone with Marlene. “They’re here. She looks okay!” She rushed over as Molly climbed the stairs to the deck. “Are you all right, child?”
“Fine. I’m fine. A little shaky. Ray said you shot Jerry. He’s dead?”
“Very. I made sure of that,” said Lillie.
“Is he inside?” asked Molly. “I—I need to see.”
Osborne opened the door to the cabin for Molly to enter. Ray and Lillie followed, as did Osborne. Molly walked to the middle of the room, then stopped to look.
What was left of Jerry O’Brien would have to be sorted out from the cabin wall. Unlike a .22, a .357 leaves little to chance. As Molly turned to leave, Lillie put an arm across her shoulders. “Better me than you, kid.”
“But Lillie, you could have been—” said Molly.
“That’s what I said. Better me than you. I’ve got a full life behind me. You’ve got a full one ahead.”
“It’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the old woman. “No more nightmares.”
thirty-one
You must lose a fly to catch a trout.
—George Herbert
Dead Jitterbug Page 17
