He thought about returning to the airfield, but he was hurting, and it was uphill. He decided to follow the stream; he thought he knew where it met the main lakeside road. A few minutes later, he found he was right. The stream gurgled under a stone bridge and ran on down to the lake. Howell struggled up the embankment and made the road, clutching his arm to his side to keep his ribs from moving around. He’d give a lot for an elastic bandage, he thought.
He set himself as good a pace as he could manage and hiked down the road toward Sutherland. No cars passed, and the glow from the direction of the airfield had subsided. He made the crossroads in less than fifteen minutes and turned down the road toward the lake and the cabin. As he walked the last few yards and came around the bend, he was relieved to see Scotty’s car parked outside and a light on in the cabin.
He started up the stairs and stopped. Suddenly cautious, he climbed softly, staying near the edge of the steps to avoid creaking.
At the top, he leaned over the rail and looked through the window at the side of the landing, which gave him a view of the cabin’s living room. Scotty was sitting at his desk at the other end of the room, her head resting on her folded arms, asleep.
Howell was nearly overwhelmed with relief. She had made it. He opened the cabin door and crossed toward her. When he was halfway to the desk, a board creaked under his feet and Scotty sat up and turned. Her face was puffy and red on one side, and her left wrist was handcuffed to the chair.
“What took you so long?” a someone behind him asked.
Howell sagged at the sound of the familiar voice. He turned slowly around to find Bo Scully leaning against the wall behind the door. In one hand he was holding an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s; with the other, he was pointing a police riot shotgun, the same sort Howell had used to save Bo’s life at Minnie Wilson’s grocery store.
36
Howell took as deep a breath as he could and let it out. “Well, Bo, I’m glad to see you. I was hoping you and I could have a talk before they take you away.”
Bo chuckled. “Now, who’s going to take me away, John?” He seemed a little drunk. The Jack Daniel’s bottle had a big dent in it.
Howell looked at Scotty. She shook her head. “He caught me just as I got to the Kellys‘. I woke up here.” She held up the handcuffed wrist.
“But I heard the siren…”
Bo chimed in. “That was the Sutherland fire department. Police cars don’t have sirens anymore. We use whoopers, these days.”
Howell suddenly knew that Bo was drunk because, sober, he couldn’t do what he planned to do. Howell tried not to show how afraid he was. “Come on, Bo, there’s no way you can get out of this.”
“Oh, sure there is,” Bo said, amiably. “Try and look at it objectively, John. The boys got one of the tires on the van changed, and they’re gone; just a load of somebody’s furniture on the way to God-knows-where. My car’s parked in the woods down the road; the fellow you hit with the rifle recovered enough to do that for me, and then be on his way. He even picked up the shell casings before he went.” Bo chuckled. “Matter of fact, I had a hard time getting him to go. He wanted to hang around and remove your liver.”
“You could never explain the plane, Bo. That’s just too big a mess.”
“Oh, it’s a mess, all right. An Air National Guard plane crashes and burns on a training exercise, probably trying to make an emergency landing on our little strip. The woods will be swarming with state patrolmen and FAA inspectors by noon. ”Course, there’s nobody left alive to identify me.“
“That plane’s got a few bullet holes in it. Somebody’ll notice.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. Imagine, some crazy person taking a shot at an airplane. I predict they’ll never find him. And Scotty’s pictures are over there.”
Howell followed Bo’s glance to the fireplace, where something was smoking. There were still two rolls in Howell’s pocket, though. Bo didn’t know about those.
“And where are you right now, Bo? Why isn’t the sheriff up there at that plane crash?”
“Oh, I’m asleep in a motel over at Gainesville. I went over there with Eric Sutherland’s body this afternoon and waited for the autopsy results. The medical examiner and the coroner agree with your judgment, by the way; clear-cut suicide. Then I was just so tuckered out, I checked into the Holiday Inn and went right to bed with instructions not to be disturbed.” Bo grinned ruefully. “Have I left out anything, John? Anything I forgot?”
Howell felt numb. He knew, now, that Bo was going to get away with it, with everything.
“I’m real sorry, John,” Bo said, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have a murder and a suicide up here. The way you’re holding your ribs there, and the way Scotty’s face is, it’s going to look like a real knock-down, drag-out, too.”
“You’re getting real good at suicides, aren’t you, Bo?” This was just a stab, but Howell didn’t know what to do except keep talking.
Bo’s eyebrows went up. “Now that really interests me,” he said. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell me how you figured that. I thought it looked real good.”
“It did look good, Bo. The pencil was a particularly nice touch. And then I read Eric Sutherland’s will and an affidavit he’d attached. That got me thinking that you had a first-rate motive to blow Sutherland away.” Howell tried to talk as slowly as he could. He needed the time to think. “Then I began to think that if Sutherland had put the shotgun into his mouth, only the back of his head would have been gone, not most of the front, as well. It occurred to me that if I were going to kill myself with a shotgun, I wouldn’t look right down the barrel, as Sutherland apparently did. On the other hand, if I were going to kill somebody in the heat of the moment, I probably wouldn’t take the time to stick it in his mouth. I’d just point it at his head and pull the trigger. Which is what I reckon you did.”
Bo nodded thoughtfully. “And just how did you happen to read Eric’s will?”
“He kept the combination taped to the edge of a stenographer’s shelf in his desk. Who the hell could ever remember the combination to a safe? And when I read that will, a lot of things began to make sense.”
“Excuse me,” Scotty said, sounding irritated. “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, but this doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”
“It’s a long story,” Howell said. He looked at Bo. “Have we got time?”
“Oh, sure,” Bo said. “I’d like to hear this myself. Go right ahead.” He held up the bottle. “You want a drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Howell replied. He watched closely as Bo poured a slug of bourbon into a dirty glass on the table at the end of the sofa and handed it to Howell. Bo was very careful about it.
“Well,” Howell said, knocking back some of the bourbon, “where to begin? A long time ago, I think. The middle of the last century. When the original settlers of the valley started putting down roots here, they had an idea that they were establishing something permanent, something that would live on. They expected to proliferate. They were Irish, after all. But every time their numbers would begin to build, something would happen to set them back again – war, disease, that sort of thing. Father Harry brought me up to date on that. Well, nearly up to date, anyway. Do you mind if I sit down, Bo? These ribs are giving me hell.”
Howell moved around to the sofa and sat down. Bo didn’t stop him, but moved around with him, leaving his back to the fireplace. Howell was hoping Scotty would remember that her pistol was in his desk drawer, but, maddeningly, she rolled the office chair toward the sofa, away from the desk, clearly fascinated by his story. When she moved, though, he saw on the desk behind her the red glow of the ‘on’ light of his tape recorder. Good girl, he thought.