Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  “Someone came through here to get him.” As she said it, Theo raised her head, looked up and down the road, looked at the outline of the stranger’s car: pinpoints of chrome, splashes of orange-painted metal visible through the foliage. She looked down at the footprints, followed their direction with her eyes. “They’re still here, somewhere.” Her voice was low; her eyes were in constant motion. “These tracks only go one way.”

  “Bernhardt.” Price spoke bitterly. “It’s got to be Bernhardt, that son of a bitch.”

  Not replying, she turned away from him. With the revolver swinging at her side, she was following the footprints, back the way they’d come.

  “Get the rifle,” she said. “And lock the truck.”

  6:05 P.M.

  AS HE PULLED OPEN the barn door and slipped inside, Bernhardt looked down at the tracks in the dirt; he could see the outline of his Reeboks and the arc of the sagging door dragging in the dust. He drew the door shut and looked for a catch, a bar, something to secure the door. There was nothing. He turned, quickly surveyed the barn’s interior, noted a line of horse stalls, a jumble of empty packing boxes, the rusted-out hulk of an ancient truck, oddments of moldering farm equipment.

  John and Janice stood together beside a ladder that led up to a hayloft. He went to them, spoke softly to the woman: “They’re coming back down the road, on foot. He’s got a rifle, she’s got a pistol.” As he spoke, reflexively, he touched his revolver, holstered at the small of his back.

  “That shot—” Janice moved a half-step closer to him, unconsciously seeking protection.

  Admitting to his own uncertainty, the first hint of fear, Bernhardt shook his head. His eyes were fixed on the door. “I don’t know. It could’ve been anything.” As he spoke, he was aware that John was moving away from them, toward the wall that fronted on the dirt road. The golden light of the gathering sunset came in narrow shafts through the cracks in the wall. John put his eye to a knothole.

  “The lookout,” Bernhardt whispered, making an effort to smile at the woman beside him. When he’d first met her, hardly more than a week ago, sitting across from an elegant marble coffee table in her expensive hotel suite, she’d seemed remarkably assured, completely in control. Now, wearing jeans that had gotten dirty when she’d climbed through the fence, hair in disarray, with sweat beading her forehead and upper lip, she was a different person: a small, uneasy woman in a strange place. Now she pointed to the ladder. “There’s a hayloft, up there. We could hide in the hay.”

  Instinctively, Bernhardt shook his head. “We’d be cornered, up there. I’d rather face them. Right here.” He pointed to the stalls, and the empty packing boxes and the hulk of the truck. “You and John can get out of sight. If they come in, I’ll talk to them.”

  “But the guns …”

  He smiled. “There won’t be a shootout, don’t worry. I’m no hero. It doesn’t pay.”

  Trying to answer the smile, she said, “The woman—who is she?”

  “She’s Price’s girlfriend.”

  Beside him, she stood silently, her eyes fixed on the figure of the small boy, half-crouched, his eye to the knothole.

  “Alan—I’m scared. The guns … that shot …”

  He stepped closer, put his arm around her shoulders, squeezed. “Shooting trespassers is like sending people to the gas chamber for overtime parking.”

  She tried to smile. It was a failed effort.

  At the far end of the wall, alien movement disturbed the golden lines of sunshine. Reacting, John’s body stiffened; his outspread hands shifted against the rough wood, fingers widespread, tightened.

  “They’re out there,” Janice whispered. “They’re right beside the barn.”

  Bernhardt nodded, moved to stand in front of her as he faced the door.

  6:06 P.M.

  “THEY COULD BE ANYWHERE.” Theo’s voice was wary. “If they’re hiding, they could be anywhere.”

  Price took a fresh grip on the rifle. Had he remembered to set the safety? Had he jacked a round in the chamber? Yes, the safety was set. But was there a cartridge in the chamber, ready? “Just a minute.” He stopped walking, rested the rifle butt against his thigh, released the safety catch, drew back the bolt. Yes, he could see the brass cartridge casing. As he pushed the bolt home and reset the safety, the specter of Martelli suddenly seared his consciousness. It was a progression of quick cuts: Martelli half-raising the 30-30; Martelli’s face, eyes wide with shock; Martelli falling; Martelli’s upper chest, blood-soaked.

  Martelli, dying?

  Dead?

  If Maria or one of the winery workers had called emergency, would he have heard the sound of the ambulance’s siren? Yes. In this quiet, open country, sound carried.

  “Self-defense,” she’d said. Yes. Yes. Certainly, self-defense. And kidnapping, too. Yes.

  With the rifle he gestured to a small pathway that led from the barn on their left down to the stream on their right. The pathway was grass, not dirt; there were no footprints. “Let’s try the creek first. That’s where he spends most of his time.”

  “I think we should’ve checked out their car.”

  “Let’s check the creek, first.”

  She made no reply.

  At the place where the path intersected the dirt road, across from the derelict barn, he saw another bit of chrome glinting from a thicket beside the barn.

  “Theo.” He spoke softly, involuntarily. If he had let a moment pass—a single moment, while he considered—would he have said it? Remembering her eyes after she’d shot Martelli, would he have said it?

  Instantly, she turned toward him. With the movement, the revolver came up, held at the ready. It was too late now. The second thought had come too late.

  He pointed to the thicket. “That’s his bike. There, in those bushes beside the barn.”

  6:07 P.M.

  JOHN WAS ABOUT TO draw back from the wall when he saw them: his father carrying his deer-hunting rifle, and the woman carrying a pistol.

  It was her. Her.

  The woman he’d seen the night his mother died. The woman who’d come down the stairs from the second floor with his father.

  As he watched them come closer, just as they’d come closer that night as he lay on the couch, it all came back: angry voices, the crash of furniture, the sound of fighting, and then the terrible silence, broken only by the sound of furtive movement, and the hushed voices. His father’s voice, and the woman’s voice.

  Murderers.

  Murderers.

  The word struck him like a hostile hand, so strong that it forced a low moan of pain, brought the sting of sudden tears, doubled him over.

  “John—?” his aunt’s voice called. Through the blur of tears, he saw her stricken face. She was coming closer. Her hands were on his shoulders. If only she would draw him to her, hug him as his mother used to, his earliest memory.

  “John. What is it? What’d you see?”

  “It—” He swallowed, fought tears. Suddenly it had all come down to this time, this place, this moment.

  Now.

  “It—it’s her.” With great effort, he raised his arm, pointed. “That lady. She was there, that night. The—the night my mommy died. She was there. With—with—”

  Could he do it?

  Could he say it?

  With all the time gone, with the whole world slipping away, could he say it? Here? Now?

  “With my—my father. They were both of them there. Upstairs. They—”

  “Oh, God. Oh, John.”

  As, yes, her arms came around him, drawing him close—holding him. Finally holding him close.

  6:10 P.M.

  THEO POINTED TO THE ground, to the fresh footprints in the soft dirt, to the curving track left by the door.

  “That’s a child’s footprint,” she whispered. “That’s John. Bernhardt’s got John, in there.”

  “It—it could be the sheriff, though. We don’t know it’s Bernhardt. Not really.”

  �
��The sheriff wouldn’t hide.” It was a tight, furious hiss. “It’s Bernhardt.” As she spoke, she gripped the door with her left hand, holding the revolver ready in her right hand.

  “B—be careful. He could have a gun.”

  “Help me, dammit.”

  He gripped the door, pulled it open far enough for her to slip through. After a last glance back over his shoulder, one final glimpse of the familiar sun-drenched terrain he was leaving, he followed her into the shadows of the old barn.

  6:12 P.M.

  HIDDEN BEHIND THE SKEWED stack of broken packing boxes, Bernhardt drew his revolver, swung the cylinder out. One chamber was empty, insurance against accidental discharge, if the gun were dropped. Before they’d left the car he’d put a half-handful of cartridges in his pocket. With his eyes fixed on the barn door, he took a single cartridge from his pocket, slipped it into the empty chamber, noiselessly locked the cylinder in place. Here—now—the safety theory had inverted. Here—now—the sixth cartridge could mean survival.

  From this position he could see both his charges: Janice, crouched behind the farthest horse stall, John kneeling on the ground beside the truck’s rear wheel. Janice was thirty feet away from him, John was twenty feet away. It was a defensive triangle, a sixty-second defensive improvisation. He could see them; they could see him. But they couldn’t see each other. He was the director, then. Just as, in that other world, his job was to deploy actors on a stage.

  But this was real life. This was—

  From his far right, fifty feet away, he heard the sound of the door scraping dirt. On the earthen floor of the barn, a slender line of sunlight was widening—widening. A foot appeared, then a leg, a hand gripping a revolver: Theo Stark, moving silently, silkily—dangerously. The female of the species, on the prowl. Followed by Dennis Price, holding a rifle like he might handle a snake.

  Outside, at a distance, the rifle would count; the handgun would be useless.

  Here, at close quarters, the maneuverability of the revolver could make the difference.

  He looked at Janice. Smiled. Winked.

  He looked at John. Smiled. Winked. Placed his forefinger to his lips, pantomiming Shhh.

  Both of them smiled in return. Janice tremulously, John timidly. From where they crouched concealed, neither of them could see the woman and the man as they advanced: the woman in the lead, searching ahead; the man behind, covering her, his head and his rifle swinging from side to side.

  Then, suddenly breaking the silence, Price called softly: “John?”

  Bernhardt saw the boy’s head come up, saw his lips part, an involuntary response. Quickly, Bernhardt shook his head, raised his hand, once more the director, life or death, now. Confused, the boy frowned, blinked—but remained silent, lowering his head.

  The woman and the man had covered more than half the distance between the door and the derelict truck. Another ten paces and Theo, still in the lead, would see John, crouched beside the truck’s big rear wheel.

  Five paces.

  Bernhardt raised his revolver. Should he cock the gun, risk the sound of two metallic clicks? Single-action shooting was more accurate than double action. Slower, but more accurate.

  But double action gave no warning, was therefore safer.

  He took his thumb from the hammer, raised the revolver slightly, lined up the sights on the woman’s head, then lowered them to the body.

  Two paces.

  A bullet, ripping into that beautiful predator’s body—could he do it, pull the trigger?

  With his left hand Bernhardt cautioned John, gestured for him to remain motionless.

  Moving a single step beyond the truck, inching forward, the woman looked first to her left, toward the jumble of packing cases that sheltered Bernhardt. Could she see him as he crouched behind the boxes, both his eyes and his gun tracking her through a narrow space between the cases? Should he stand up, confront her?

  Another half-step, each moment a shrieking eternity, and her head began to swing away from him and toward the boy. All the time was gone—the days, the minutes, now the last seconds, gone. All the—

  Suddenly her whole body tensed. Her eyes, he knew, were blazing as, yes, the revolver came up, aimed at the small figure crouched behind the truck.

  “Theo.” It was his voice, a sound that filled the silence. His theatrical voice, make-believe loud, make-believe brave. “Drop it.”

  Revolver raised, crouched, she began the turn toward him, committed.

  6:13 P.M.

  “THEO. DROP IT.”

  A stranger’s voice.

  Bernhardt, hidden?

  Hidden with John? Protecting John?

  Price saw Theo’s shoulder drop, saw her crouch, saw her revolver swing, tracking the man’s voice. The revolver was trained on the stack of broken boxes.

  Moving with Theo as she turned, Price raised the rifle, steadied it. Involuntarily, his finger tightened on the trigger. The explosion shattered the silence. The rifle kicked, struck his shoulder, hard.

  One explosion.

  Another explosion, a second shot.

  His?

  6:13:02 P.M.

  BERNHARDT’S REVOLVER KICKED; ORANGE flame blossomed. The explosion mingled with the shouts, the screams, and the sound of the other explosion. Her blouse was white, her blood was bright red against the white. Holding his revolver in both hands, the approved stance, Bernhardt leaped clear of the packing cases, sprang toward the woman, kicked the revolver from her hand. The pistol struck the front wheel of the truck, fell to the ground. Bernhardt whirled to face the man. Price stood motionless. His eyes were wide, staring at the woman as she sank slowly to her knees. The rifle was pointed down toward the ground at Bernhardt’s feet. A single eddy of smoke curled from the muzzle. With his revolver trained on Price’s chest, Bernhardt whispered, “Drop the gun, Dennis.” As Theo began to slowly shake her head, Price laid the rifle in the dirt and then stepped back. As Theo sighed once and then collapsed, Price lifted his eyes to Bernhardt, saying, “John?”

  11 P.M.

  JOHN YAWNED, LOOKED AT his bed. His Aunt Janice had turned the bedspread down, the way his mother had done, so very long ago. But his aunt didn’t want him to go to bed, didn’t want him to go to sleep, not yet. They were waiting for someone.

  He looked at his aunt, looked at the TV. It was about a large family that talked too much and laughed too loud. His Aunt Janice had turned the volume down until the voices were only whispers. When there’d been nothing left for him to say to his aunt, nothing left for her to say to him, when only their small, sad smiles were left, she’d turned on the TV, so he wouldn’t fall asleep.

  Now he looked at his aunt, and saw her watching him. When their eyes met, she smiled a quick, bright smile, more serious than cheerful. His Aunt Janice was worried. Scared, really. The men downstairs, the cars outside, the flashing lights, the sound of strangers’ footsteps—it was all the same as the night his mother died. And his aunt was scared.

  Words ran together in his thoughts. Words like Aunt Janice became one word. And Grandpa Hale, too—the grandfather he’d never know, his mother’s father.

  And the night his mother died all ran together, too: one long, sad word, the word that would never leave his thoughts. It was a word that—

  A knock on the door: three light knuckle-raps. A stranger’s knock. It was the knock Aunt Janice had been expecting, the knock they’d been waiting for. Quickly, she stepped to the TV, switched it off, then went to the door. She looked back at him, smiled, and nodded. Don’t worry, the nod meant.

  But she was worried.

  Plainly, she was worried.

  She opened the door to the tall, half-bald man with the thin voice who spoke quietly. But when he spoke, the strangers in the house listened, and nodded, and obeyed. Everyone but the sheriff, who never nodded.

  Aunt Janice and the man were talking quietly. Their eyes had gone cloudy. It was the same way everyone had talked at the funeral, the same way they’d looked arou
nd the eyes and the mouth.

  Had Al died?

  Was that what the tall, thin man had come to tell them? When they’d driven from the barn to the house, they’d found Al lying beside the road. Maria had been kneeling beside Al, crying, rocking from side to side as she pressed a blood-soaked towel to Al’s upper chest. Soon afterward the ambulance had come, its siren screaming. It had only been a station wagon that was painted white, with red lights on top. So they’d had to send another ambulance for the woman they’d left at the barn.

  On the night his mother died—those words, again—there’d only been one ambulance. And when the ambulance left, that night, there were no sirens, no flashing red lights. Only the headlights, sweeping white arcs in the darkness.

  At the door, his Aunt Janice and the tall man were finished talking. They nodded to each other as if they were agreeing to something sad. Yes, it was like the two days in Santa Barbara, those final two days: low voices, slow movements, eyes that had gone dark.

  Had Al died? He’d been alive when they put him in the ambulance. His eyelids had been fluttering, and his fingers had twitched.

  While Aunt Janice closed the door, the tall man stepped forward, smiling down at him. The man was so tall that the ceiling was behind his head, not the wall.

  “Hi John,” the man said. “My name is Clifford Benson. I’m the district attorney of Benedict County. I’m the one who’s got to decide whether we arrest people—put them in jail.” As he spoke, the tall man sat on the bed, gesturing for John to sit beside him. Between them the tall man placed a small tape recorder.

  “Not the sheriff?” he asked.

  “Well, the sheriff makes the first decision, I guess you’d say. He makes the on-scene decision, as we call it. He decides whether someone should be arrested. But then I have to decide whether there’s enough evidence to indict someone, make him stand trial, in court. The sheriff does his work first, gets everything secured. Then he calls me.” The tall man was smiling at him. “Do you see?” It was the kind of question a teacher would ask. A good teacher, not one of the bad teachers.