I turned to Murfin. “I’ve got to get to a phone,” I said.
He nodded. “That was her?”
“Yes,” I said. “That was Sally Raines.”
I started toward the porch where the man with the beer can still stood. “You got a phone?” I said.
“That mother almost shot you,” he said. “When you went and threw that bottle he almost shot you.”
“You got a phone?” I said again.
“Yeah, I got a phone.” He took another swallow of his beer and started into the house. Murfin and I followed. “You must be fuckin’ crazy, man, throwin’ somethin’ at a man with a gun,” the man with the beer said over his shoulder, then stopped, turned, and looked at me. “Pretty good throw though.”
He led us into the house and we turned right into a living room where a large color-console television set played silently to some unseen audience.
“Phone’s over there,” he said.
I picked up the phone and made my first call. When Audrey answered I said, “I’ve got some bad news. Some very bad news. Sally’s been shot. She’s dead.”
There was a silence and then she whispered, “Oh-mygodno.”
“There’s nothing you can do for her.”
“When did it happen?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, shit, it’s my fault. It’s all my goddamn fault.”
“Audrey!” I said, barking her name.
“Yes,” she said, her voice still almost a whisper.
“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault at all. Listen, I want you to do something and I want you to do it right now.”
“What?”
“I want you to throw some clothes together for you and the kids and I want you to get in your car and drive out to the farm. Ruth’ll be there.”
“Ruth’ll be there?” The shock of Sally Raines’s death must have hit then because her voice had gone dull and childlike, although it sounded pleased about Ruth.
“She’ll be expecting you and the kids,” I said.
“You want us to go to the farm?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to be there?”
“I’ll be there later.”
“You want us to go now?”
“That’s right.”
“And Ruth’ll be there.”
There was another silence and then she said in a low, tortured voice, “Oh, God, Harvey, why’d it all have to happen?”
“We’ll talk about it later. At the farm.”
“At the farm,” she said and then hung up without saying good-bye.
I put the phone down and looked around the room. The black man was staring at his television set. “I don’t much watch it, y’know. I just kinda like the colors all moving around. I reckon it’s sorta like a fireplace.”
“Where’d the other guy go?” I said.
“The other guy? He went upstairs. He went upstairs because he wanted to pee and because he wanted to look at her room. Shit, I don’t wanta look at her room, do you?”
“No,” I said, picked up the phone and made a collect call to Ruth. When she answered I told her about Sally Raines and that Audrey and the children would be coming out to stay for a while.
“I’m terribly sorry about Sally,” Ruth said. “She and Audrey were so close. Is Audrey all right?”
“She might need a little comforting.”
“Of course.” There was a pause and then Ruth said, “Did you see it happen?”
“Yes. Murfin and I saw it. We’re going to have to talk to the police.”
“Harvey?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t take any more chances. It’s not worth it.”
“No,” I said, “it really isn’t.”
After we said good-bye I made my third call. It was to my lawyer, Earl Inch. When he came on I said, “I think I’m in even more trouble than I thought I was.”
“Excellent,” he said and when I told him about it and where I was he said he would be right over. “Have you called the cops?” he asked.
I could hear a siren somewhere. It seemed to be coming closer. “No,” I said. “Somebody else did.”
After talking to Inch I turned from the phone just as Murfin came into the room. The white-haired black had got himself another can of beer and was drinking it as he stood staring reflectively into the silent color of the television set that served as his surrogate fireplace. Murfin looked at the man, then at me, and jerked his head toward the door, indicating that he wanted us to go outside. I nodded, thanked the man for the use of his phone, and went out onto the porch with Murfin.
“Jesus, I had to piss,” he said.
“What was her room like?”
He shook his head. “Her clothes were lying all over everything. Looked like they tore ’em off her. What does Chad mean?”
“How do you spell it?”
He spelled it for me.
“It’s the name of a country in Africa. It also could be a man’s name, usually his first name, although it’s not too common. You know anybody named Chad?”
“No.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“There was a little old beat-up desk in her room. There were a couple of pieces of paper on it, all wadded up. There wasn’t anything on one of them. But on the other somebody’d written down Chad. It looked like a girl’s writing.”
“Jesus,” I said, “maybe it’s a clue.”
“Yeah,” Murfin said happily. “Maybe it is.”
Chapter Thirteen
Detective Aaron Oxley of the Metropolitan Police Department’s homicide squad couldn’t think of anything to charge me with except a felony that could, he said, get me five to ten years in Lorton. The felony that Detective Oxley had in mind was my failure to report a felony. The felony that I had failed to report was Max Quane’s murder, but my lawyer, Earl Inch, pooh-poohed that as only a $100-an-hour lawyer can; with magnificent derision and chilling disdain. Detective Oxley took it well enough because he really didn’t seem too interested in charging me with anything anyhow. What he was really interested in was why I had thrown the empty pint bottle of Old Overholt. And Murfin. He was interested in Murfin, too.
“These two guys with ski masks,” Oxley said. “They both had guns, right?”
“Right.”
“And one of the guys—”
“The one in the blue mask,” I said.
“Yeah, the blue mask. Well, he goes into what you call the FBI crouch—”
“You know,” I said, “like on television.”
“Yeah,” Oxley said, sighed, and perhaps even shuddered a little. “Like on television. Well, the guy in the blue mask has a gun and the one in the red mask has a gun, but that doesn’t bother you any. You pick up an empty pint bottle and pop the guy with the blue mask on the arm with it just as he’s about to shoot the Raines woman.”
“Obviously, Mr. Longmire was trying to prevent a cold-blooded murder,” said Earl Inch, earning his $100 an hour. “I think he should be commended.”
“Congratulations,” Oxley said to me. “I think you’re wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me again why you threw the bottle.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea. At the time.”
“You didn’t think that, well, maybe these two guys with the guns might get just a little offended? You know, a little pissed off at you and maybe even get it into their heads that they oughta plunk a few shots your way?”
“Mr. Longmire was obviously willing to risk his life in order to save that of another,” Inch said and sounded as if he almost believed it.
“Mr. Inch,” Oxley said. “I know you’re here to represent your client and all of us really appreciate your efforts. We really do. Honestly. But when I ask Mr. Longmire here a question I’d appreciate it if you’d just let him answer it and then, if you don’t like his answers, well, you can sort of patch them up afterwards and tell me what it was that he really meant to say. Okay?”