Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  Bernhardt decided not to reply. Instead, he waited. How often, in forty-four years, had he been frightened? How badly?

  Without the iron pipe hidden beneath the newspaper, how badly frightened?

  “Well,” Carter demanded, “aren’t you going to say anything, asshole?”

  “What I’m going to say,” Bernhardt answered, “what I’m going to suggest, is that you leave. I don’t know who you are, what your problem is, but I’d advise you to—”

  “Hey. Wait.” Carter struck his shoulder with the heel of his hand, hard. It was a practiced bully-boy’s blow, the ancient invitation to combat. Off balance, Bernhardt stumbled, caught himself, stepped back. As, yes, Carter came through the open doorway. Committed.

  Bernhardt feinted a dodge to his left, away from the bureau. Carter’s fist caught him high on the forehead, a glancing blow. He let himself fall away from the punch—toward the bureau. Following the feint, Carter dodged, crouched, recovered, swung his left hand, a practiced prizefighter’s jab that struck Bernhardt’s chest. Off balance, Bernhardt kicked for the kneecap, struck the thigh, a solid thud of shoe on flesh, sending Carter’s next blow wide, too short. Bernhardt pivoted, brushed the newspaper aside, grasped the pipe. He crouched low, swung the pipe, a scythe.

  Another sound: the crack of metal meeting bone. A sharp exhalation, an outraged obscenity as Carter’s fury faded to round-eyed outrage, the injured innocent.

  “Ah—ah. Shit.”

  One arm, the left, dropped, grasped by the right hand now, supported. Furiously, Bernhardt drove his left fist into Carter’s chest, sending him crashing into the wall beside the door.

  “My arm—you broke my fucking arm.”

  “You’re lucky it was your arm, you son of bitch. How would you like it here, right across the face? Is that what you want? Huh?” He laid the pipe against Carter’s face, threw his weight against the pipe, saw the pressure distort the nose, twist the lips, close one eye. He heard himself panting now: an animal, gasping for breath. Carter had done it, reduced him to this, a stranger to himself, panting into his victim’s face.

  “Fuck you.” But it was a protest, not a challenge.

  Bernhardt transferred the pipe to his left hand, grasped the T-shirt with his right hand. With his shoulder jammed into Carter’s midsection, he felt the small convulsion, heard the sigh of pain. His victim, beaten. With the weapon, beaten. Tools separated men from animals, the wisdom of freshman anthropology.

  “I want you to get in your fucking truck,” Bernhardt breathed, “and I want you to get out of here. Take your broken arm, and go. And don’t come back. Because if you do, you son of a bitch—if you do—I won’t have this pipe in my hand. I’ll have a gun.” He brought up the pipe, jammed it under Carter’s chin, hard. “Got it?”

  No reply. No shadow of fear in Carter’s eyes, only a dogged, street-fighter’s defiance, an elemental hatred.

  Not enough. No, not good enough.

  “Got it?” With the adrenaline draining away, he gritted his own teeth against the other man’s pain as he drove his shoulder against Carter’s torso, saw the flash of agony in Carter’s eyes.

  Requiring that it continue, the barbarian’s brutality, until Carter finally muttered, “Got it.”

  10:15 P.M.

  “GIVE IT TO ME, ALAN.” Sternly, Janice held out her hand, for the dinner check. “I absolutely insist.”

  Having moved to pick up the check in good faith, Bernhardt conceded. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Thanks, Janice.” Paula reached across the table to pat her friend’s arm. “This is a wonderful place.” Appreciatively, Paula looked again at the restaurant’s country-French decor, with its antiques and its continental-style staff, neither too servile nor too surly.

  “Benedict County has a lot to recommend it,” Janice said, sipping her coffee. “But it’s pretty ingrown with beautiful people, I suspect.”

  “The beautiful people …” Bernhardt spoke thoughtfully. “Does Dennis qualify, I wonder?”

  “I suppose he does.” Janice spoke grimly. “The bastard.” Then, unpredictably, she asked, “Are you in Who’s Who, Alan?”

  He guffawed. “Where the hell did that question come from?”

  “Are you?”

  “Not anymore,” he answered. His face, he knew, would reveal too much, if he continued. But there was no choice, now. He must contrive a smile, and go on: “I was twenty-six when my play was produced off Broadway. Who’s Who put me in their book right away, no sweat. They send you questionnaires, though, every year. So by the time I turned thirty—” He shrugged.

  “Alan.” Seated beside him in a booth, Paula moved closer, a spontaneous expression of pleasure, a teenager’s wriggle. This was the Paula he loved most—the whimsical Paula. The girl, burbling up through the woman’s persona. “Alan—Who’s Who? At twenty-six?”

  “The problem being,” he answered, “that I’m forty-four now.”

  “You’ve written other plays, though,” Janice said.

  “Oh, yeah. But none’ve been produced. Writing for the stage—” He shook his head, sipped his tea. “The odds are very, very long that you’ll get your play produced.”

  “What about screenwriting?” Janice asked.

  “I tried a couple of screenplays, years ago. One of them was optioned, but that was the end of it.”

  Janice nodded, an expression of empathy. “Writing—painting—acting, they’re all the same. You gamble your whole life—put all your chips in the pot, and hope to draw the right card. I painted for ten years before I sold anything.”

  “But now you’re selling,” Paula said. “You’re a success.”

  “The past couple of years, yes. I just hope it continues.”

  Ruefully, Paula smiled. “We’re in the same boat, all three of us. One way or the other, suffering for our art.”

  “Sometimes I think acting is the worst,” Bernhardt said. “You get up on that stage, and you take off all your clothes. And half the time—more than half the time—they don’t like what they see. If you paint—write—you’ve got the canvas or the typewriter to hide behind. But acting—” He shook his head.

  The waitress returned with the credit card voucher. Janice signed the voucher, returned her wallet and pen to her purse, then spoke to Bernhardt: “So what about tomorrow? Do you think we can trust Al Martelli?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice. It’s either that or try to get a court order for you to see John. And I’ve never heard of that happening. Fathers and mothers, yes. But aunts—” He shook his head.

  “You’ll be trespassing,” Paula said. “What’ll happen if Dennis finds you? You’re going to cut his fence, for God’s sake. And—” As a new thought took shape, her eyes clouded, her voice dropped. “He could even make a case for kidnapping, it seems to me.”

  “Trespassing, yes,” Bernhardt said. “Not kidnapping, though. We won’t be taking John off the property. Besides, kidnapping means you take someone against his will.”

  “Trespassing, then. Dennis could shoot you.”

  “Come on, Paula, don’t dramatize. After dark, maybe, he could get away with shooting us, claiming he thought we were threatening him. But not in broad daylight. And not if we have John with us, he’s not going to shoot us.”

  Considering the point, Paula looked thoughtfully away.

  “Anyhow,” Bernhardt said, “I’m going to be the lookout.” He moved his cup and saucer away, took his table knife, and began drawing lines on the thick, white linen tablecloth. “That’s the property, the vineyard. Forty acres. That’s the county road, running along the east side. There’s the entrance, and there’s the driveway. It forks. The left-hand fork goes to the house—here, and the right fork goes to Al Martelli’s house and the winery buildings—here. Those buildings are in a hollow. They can’t be seen when you first drive into the entrance.”

  “They can be seen from the house, though,” Janice offered. “At least, from the second floor.”

  �
�Thanks,” Bernhardt said. “That’s good to know.” He continued drawing. “This is a small stream that cuts across the northwest corner of the property. And this—” He made a square. “This is the old barn. And this is a little dirt road that more or less parallels the property along the western perimeter. Here’s the gate, here. So what’ll happen—” He used the knife as a pointer. “At four o’clock tomorrow, Janice and I will drive to this point.” He indicated the dirt road. “We’ll conceal the car as best we can, and walk to the gate, here. It’s secured by a padlock and chain. I’ll cut the chain. Then we’ll walk to the barn. It’s about a hundred yards, I’d say. Maybe a little more. There’re plenty of trees, so we can’t be seen. If everything goes right, Martelli and John will meet us at the barn at four-thirty. Martelli’ll go back to the winery. I’ll walk to about here.” He pointed. “There’s a knoll there, with a few oaks. I’ll be the lookout. If Price comes from his house, looking for John, I’ll be able to warn you in time”—he looked at Janice—“so that we can get out through the gate, get to the car in plenty of time to get away.”

  “Will we take John?”

  Bernhardt shook his head. “No. That’d look like kidnapping.”

  “Do you—” Janice hesitated, frowning. “Do you think there’s any chance he’d shoot us for trespassing?”

  “No,” Bernhardt answered, “I don’t. People don’t get shot for cutting other people’s fences. It just doesn’t happen.” He spoke sharply, emphatically. “He could certainly make a scene, no question. He probably would make a scene. He might take a swing at me. That’s all, though. Believe me, that’s all.”

  “But Dennis—” Framing the question, she broke off. Then: “There was something about him, on Sunday. He frightened me. He’s—he’s just holding on, it seems to me. And that kind of a person, if he’s scared, he can be dangerous, I think. Very dangerous.”

  Bernhardt reached across the table, touched her hand. “I agree, Janice,” he said. “And I’m planning accordingly. Believe me.”

  “Do you—” Janice hesitated. Then, hesitantly, as if she dreaded the answer, she asked, “Do you have a gun—carry a gun?”

  “Tomorrow,” Bernhardt answered quietly, “I’ll carry a gun.”

  11:15 P.M.

  BERNHARDT DROPPED HIS KEYS and change and billfold on the bureau beside the note Paula had left him, then stooped to pick up the newspaper. When he’d thrown the newspaper aside and grabbed the iron pipe, the newspaper had slipped behind a chair, forgotten when he’d straightened the furniture and put the bed back on its frame after the fight. He had been just about to examine the sagging drapery that hung askew between the door and the window when Paula had arrived, ready to wash up before they went to dinner. Pressed for time, she hadn’t noticed the skewed drape. Now, though, as she sat on the bed and slipped off her shoes she asked, “What happened to the drape?” As she spoke, she circled the room with speculative eyes. Something, she knew, was wrong.

  “While you were gone,” Bernhardt answered, “some guy named Carter came by. He’s a friend of Theo’s, I gather. A real asshole.”

  “And?”

  “We—ah—had a little shoving match.”

  Eyes quickening, she turned to face him fully. “A shoving match?” Her attention was sharp-focused now. “Alan—a shoving match?”

  “I—ah—reasoned with him.” He turned away, switched on the TV. “Let’s see if there’s any news.”

  WEDNESDAY

  August 30

  9:40 A.M.

  GRUNTING, FOWLER PUT THE newspaper aside, levered himself forward in his chair, and pushed the button that connected the intercom to the speaker phone.

  “Sheriff, DA Benson is on three.”

  “Okay.” He pressed another button. “Hello?” He frowned, pressed a third button, to put the call on his handset. Then, remembering that Benson once remarked that speaker phones bothered him, Fowler switched back to the speaker phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, Howard. This is Cliff.”

  “Morning, Cliff. What’s up?”

  “You know, I’m sure, that Janice Hale and a friend, a woman, checked into the Starlight.”

  “The Hale woman is staying by herself. The other woman’s staying with Bernhardt.”

  “With Bernhardt? In the same room?”

  Fowler took a moment to savor the surprise in the other man’s voice. Then: “That’s right.” He spoke laconically, allowing his satisfaction to come through. Benson, after all, was his natural antagonist: an aging college boy, a played-out, washed-out refugee from eastern big-city politics, one of life’s losers. Without his law books and his seersucker suit, Benson would be taking orders, not giving them.

  “So what’s the story on this woman?” Benson was asking.

  “Her name is Paula Brett. She’s registered as staying with Hale. But she isn’t. She comes from San Francisco.”

  “Bernhardt’s girlfriend …”

  Fowler made no reply. In the forties, he was reflecting, it would have been possible to charge Bernhardt and the Brett woman with cohabitating for immoral purposes. No more, though. Regrettably, no more.

  “Have you talked to Janice Hale?” Benson asked.

  “No.”

  There was a pause, then Benson said, “Howard, would you mind switching off that speaker phone?”

  “No problem.” He touched the switch. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “Do you—ah—intend to talk to Janice Hale?”

  Fowler let his voice go flat as he said, “I don’t see any need. Not now, at least. Seems to me, that’d get things stirred up, muddy the waters. Seems like our first priority should be to get Bernhardt and his lady friends back where they belong, so we can get on with everything.”

  In the silence that followed, Fowler could sense the other man’s disagreement. Meaning that Benson was about to pull rank. It would begin, Fowler knew, with fake good humor, a slap on the back. Two good old boys just chewing the fat:

  “Well, you know, Howard, I’ve been thinking about all this. I was able to check on Janice Hale, through the lawyer who’s handling her sister’s will, in San Francisco. And the thing is, this Hale family’s got some pretty high-powered connections, down south. I guess you probably knew that, didn’t you, Howard?”

  “I knew that Constance Price was loaded, if that’s what you mean.”

  Another long, uncomfortable silence. Then, no longer the good old boy, Benson said, “Listen, Howard, I think the time’s come when we’ve got to take a new look at the Price homicide. We’ve been proceeding on the theory that it was a prowler, a transient, someone who’s long gone. But, to my knowledge, at least, we don’t have much in the way of proof—physical proof, or eye witnesses—that do much to back up that theory. In fact, when you come right down to it, we’re really proceeding on the assumption that everything Dennis Price said is true. We’ve taken his account of events, and we’ve gone from there. We’ve done the same as concerns his kid. John. However—” For emphasis, Benson let a long, significant beat pass. “However, as I said, I think we’ve got to talk to Price again. And the boy, too. I think we’ve got to question them again. One reason I say this is that I happened to run into Al Martelli yesterday, in town. And just for the hell of it—we were having coffee, in fact—I asked him, right out, whether he believed it was a prowler that killed Constance Price. And he told me—right out—that he didn’t think so. Now, I didn’t want to take it any farther than that, with Al. I mean, it wasn’t an official interrogation, and Al understood that. He also understood that I appreciated his leveling with me. So, just as we were leaving the coffee shop, he asked me if I’d talked to Bernhardt. And when I said that I had, then Al nodded, and he said that was good, because he thought Bernhardt was on the right track.”

  “I talked to Martelli about five days ago. He didn’t seem to think so much of Bernhardt then.”

  “Only a fool won’t chang
e his mind once in a while, Howard. And Al’s no fool.”

  Fowler made no response. Instead, he began to drum his fingers on the desk. From the tone of Benson’s voice, and the cadence of his words, it was obvious that the fuss-budget DA was finally coming to the point: “So what I think we should do,” Benson said, “is talk to Price again. And I also think we should talk to his boy. John.” A short silence. Then: “I’ll leave it up to you, Howard, how we handle it. Shall we both go out to the Price place, separate them, see what they say?”

  Fowler drew a long, reluctant breath—followed by a short, rattling cough. He cleared his throat, coughed again, cleared his throat again. Finally: “I’ll go first, see what they say. Then I’ll get back to you.”

  “Will you do it today, Howard?” Unmistakably, it was a command, not a question.

  “Why not?”

  10 A.M.

  IN THE BEDROOM, PAULA heard Bernhardt talking on the telephone. She ran a comb through thick, dark hair, stepped back from the bathroom mirror, surveyed the effect. Was the gauzy blouse too sheer to wear without a sweater? She turned so that the sunlight from the frosted-glass window backlit her torso. Yes, the curve of her breast was clearly outlined, something she was unwilling to offer casual eyes. She would change to the cotton blouse she’d left hanging in the closet, the conservative alternative.

  She dropped comb, lipstick, and eyebrow pencil into her toilet kit and put the kit beside Alan’s on the bathroom counter. Was this a hint of domesticity to come: two toilet kits, side by side, along with Alan’s electric shaver plugged into a wall socket, and her shower cap drying on the shower head? They’d both been through it before: the domestic experience, she with a husband she’d come to hate, Alan with his beloved Jennie, the young wife whose radiant memory would live forever in Alan’s thoughts.

  While she, Jennie’s flesh-and-blood successor, grew older every day.