The Far Cry

by Fredric Brown

  He was just a trifle unsteady on his feet as he went back into the living room. Fortunately he wouldn't have to carry her; he knew from experience that he could get her to her feet and walk her into the bedroom, supporting part of her weight and doing the steering and that she’d walk automatically without awakening.

  Even that way, it made him stagger. God, but she was getting hefty.

  He got her on the bed, her head on the pillow. It would be smeared with lipstick in the morning, but he didn't worry about that. She was on top of the covers; he should have thought of pulling them back before he started, but it was too late now. He took off her shoes and then her stockings, and the touch of the flesh of her legs as he unfastened the garters wasn’t either disgusting or enticing; it was as impersonal as the touch of the cool metal of the foot of the bed as he steadied himself.

  It was too cool to leave her uncovered but he solved that by folding the covers from his own side of the bed back over Vi. He himself could sleep on the cot in the shed— when he was ready to sleep—and there were two blankets out there. Anyway, sleep for him was too far in the future to think about.

  He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him—although he could safely have slammed it—and went through the living room back into the kitchen.

  A coat; it would be cold out there. The flashlight. Something to dig with. Damn, why hadn't he borrowed a shovel from Callahan? No, it would have been too difficult to explain. And if he found anything, no one was going to see it or know about it, ever. It was going to be his secret, and he wasn't going to blab about it, as he had about the pictures.

  But what if the suitcases weren’t—

  He didn't dare let himself think that. They had to be there.

  A knife would have to do for digging. He opened the drawer of the kitchen table and picked the biggest one he could find; a heavy kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade.

  He stood for a moment staring at it. It had been there, with a few other implements, when he'd moved in. Could this have been the murder knife? The sheriff would have seen it, certainly, in his search of the place after the body had been found, but if Nelson had washed and cleaned it well, how would the sheriff have known?

  Nobody could know now. But it could have been the knife. It had been there, and it was consistent with Pepe Sanchez’s description.

  To hell with thinking about that. It would serve for digging, or at least for loosening the packed ground. Something to scrape with. He found a small but heavy iron skillet under the sink; he could use it as a scoop too.

  He had one more drink, a short one, straight.

  It was cold outside, and black. But the flashlight cut the blackness and the whisky in him helped keep out the cold. He walked to the place where he was going to dig. The other shallow grave, but not—this one—empty.

  The soil was hard to cut but the knife went in. He worked hard, fast. He found the skillet was worthless as a scoop; it was easier to loosen dirt with the knife and then scoop it up in both hands.

  Less than a foot down he came to the top of the suitcase—or what was left of the top of a suitcase; it had been cheap cardboard and there was only enough of it left now to identify what it had been. From there on he worked with the care of an archeologist uncovering brittle bones. He enlarged the hole carefully, his hands shaking a little—either with nervousness or the cold or both—but gentle, very gentle.

  It seemed to take him hours. And maybe it really did for after a while it became more and more difficult to see what he was doing and he realized that the batteries of the flashlight lying at the edge of the excavation had weakened and that the bulb glowed dully and then became only a glowing filament that cast no appreciable light.

  He swore and stood up on aching legs, then walked back toward the beacon of the lighted kitchen window of the house. His teeth were chattering with cold and his hands were numb. His knees and his back ached.

  He poured himself another drink of straight whisky, a long one, and sat at the kitchen table sipping it slowly, letting its warmth penetrate into his body. The ache in his back got worse instead of better, but after a while the coldness and the numbness of his hands went away.

  He tried not to think about what he knew he was going to find. He tried not to think at all—because he knew that if he let himself think he’d find his sanity suspect because of the intensity of his anticipation. It wasn’t, a part of his mind knew, that important. It wasn’t important at all. What matter things you learn about a girl eight years dead? What matters it to touch, to possess, things that she owned, things that she wore?

  You're drunk; blame it on that. You're drunk.

  Another drink to drive out the rest of the coldness. A shorter drink, and he made himself drink it very slowly.

  Then again the night. This time he went to the car first and got the other flashlight, with fresh batteries, that was in the glove compartment. And back to the shallow grave that was the grave not of Jenny but of the things that had been Jenny's, the things that his cleverness had enabled him to deduce and to find where no one else had ever found them nor ever would have.

  He carefully scraped away the remaining dirt from the top of the suitcase and carefully sloped and shaped the banks of earth on all sides of it so that, when he lifted, no dirt would slide down into the hole.

  He lifted with infinite care but the top of the suitcase came away, as he had feared it would. All right, he’d have to take the things out one at a time. He took off his coat and spread it on the ground beside the hole and put down on it first the top of the suitcase. Then other things, one at a time. A folded dress that came apart as he tried to lift but that taught him to be more careful with other things.

  A rusty thing that had been an alarm clock. A moldy thing that had been a case for toilet articles. A soggy thing that had been a box of stationery and envelopes. Other dresses. Dampish little balls that had been rolled up stockings. Wisps of what had been silk or rayon slips and step-ins. A bra. What had been a lace-topped nightgown. Two pairs of shoes that had been wrapped in paper that was now almost completely disintegrated. A woolen skirt that had probably once been white.

  One after another he put them reverently on his spread coat beside the shallow excavation until the suitcase was empty. It was enough for one load; he wrapped the coat around its precious burden and carried it like a baby back toward the house. But not into the house. The shed would be his repository. He put them down carefully, first, on the cot. Then he cleared the table of the typewriter and the few other things that had been on it. He opened out the coat and transferred the things he had found carefully to the table top. Save everything, he thought; until it had been thoroughly examined, even the disintegrating top of the suitcase.

  He lighted the oil stove so there’d be warmth and. dryness in the shed; he locked the door behind him as he went back through the night to the excavation. He carried his coat back for the next load; it never occurred to him that the night was cold and that he might have worn it and brought a blanket for his carrying. He spread the coat again and carefully worked out the rest of the emptied suitcase, trying to tear it as little as possible. Two pieces came out of the sides, but the rest remained intact.

  Then, disappointment. The other suitcase wasn't there and for a moment he thought there was nothing there. Then he saw that there was, but that probably nothing of it would be salvagable; the hole had been dug about two and a half feet deep and things had been thrown loose into the bottom of it, then the suitcase put on top. Obviously Nelson had decided that one of the two suitcases had been worthy of his own use and had merely dumped its contents into the bottom of the hole before he'd put the other suitcase—the cheap cardboard one—in.

  Completely unprotected, what had been in the other suitcase was, for practical purposes, gone now. He saw the sole of a shoe but when he pulled it up, only a fragment of the upper adhered. There had been clothes, but they came apart at a touch; he couldn't tell their color, their material, or even what g
arments they had been.

  But he went through it slowly, taking out everything that could be taken. The shoe and its mate, a comb, a chunk of what had once been leather and was about the size and shape of a woman's billfold but was now a solid thing—he handled it, nevertheless, with particular care on the chance that it might be steamed apart and disclose identification—a comb, a razor that was rusted solid but recognizable for what it had been. Some costume jewelry, the metal rusted or corroded, but the stones, when he rubbed them, as bright as new. The costume jewelry was all together; possibly it had been in a cardboard box but the box had ceased to exist. Buttons here and there. The rest had been cloth, and the cloth was gone.

  Nothing more. He searched thoroughly, painstakingly, but there was nothing more.

  You damned fool, he told himself, what more did you expect? Isn't this enough? Don’t you know more of Jenny now than anyone else—except those who knew her before she came here? Don't you have more of Jenny Ames than anyone else?

  He carried his coat, this time lighter than before, back to the shed. The warmth that the stove had spread showed him that he’d been gone a long time. And the pleasant shock of that warmth showed him how cold he'd been. But he disposed of the rest of his find carefully on the table before he put his coat back on. Again he locked the door before he went back to the excavation and began to scoop the dirt back into it.

  The dirt didn't fill the hole again, of course, but that didn't matter. Vi never came this way and the odds were thousands to one against anyone else coming here either.

  Flashlight—its batteries dimming now too—back in the car. The house again. Remove evidence. Wash and replace knife and skillet and the other flashlight. Mental note to buy batteries for both flashlights before night. Wash hands, brush clothes and particularly knees of trousers as well as possible. He brushed the dirt from his coat too and hung it back up.

  His face, in the mirror over the kitchen sink, was blue from cold. He should have had sense enough to carry the things in something besides his coat. He looked around, wondering if he’d left any evidence of what he’d done. The floor was gritty with sand and dirt that had been brushed from his coat and his trousers; he took a broom and swept it out into the night through the kitchen door.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was three o'clock.

  But he wasn't going to bed, at least not for a long time yet. He poured himself another drink, almost half a tumbler of straight whisky this time, and sipping at it warmed and steadied him.

  The sound of Vi's snoring from the bedroom showed him that she hadn't awakened, but he went to the door and opened it, looking to be sure that she was still under the covers he’d folded over her from his own side of the bed.

  This time he turned the light off as he left the kitchen; he wouldn’t be coming back to the house tonight. He'd left the shed light on so he could see his way back there; he carried the bottle and a glass with him.

  He sat at the table and poured himself a drink—but with extreme care so that not a drop might spill on the precious objects so near the glass. He put the bottle on the floor, safely out of the way.

  He touched this, that, of the things that had been Jenny’s. Could there be laundry tags on any of the pathetic shreds of what had been clothing? He searched carefully, reverently, but couldn't find any.

  The box of toilet articles. He almost missed the monogram on it because the gilt had come off; there was merely a depression in the leatherette. J. A.

  J. A. Jenny Ames. Or, if she had really changed her name, she’d changed it from a name that had the same initials. But then, he'd read somewhere, many people did that; it was natural when you picked a new name to use the same initials. Especially if one had anything that was monogrammed. Probably she’d even kept her right first name.

  Jenny Andrews? Jenny Anderson? Jenny Adams?

  What did a name matter?

  He spread the things carefully so they’d dry in the increasing heat of the shed. The oil heater he’d bought for it had been somewhat too large for so small a place. It had been running full blast now since he'd turned it on and the place was getting to be almost like an oven—but that would dry out Jenny’s things more quickly so he left it on, even though he himself was beginning to sweat a little in the heat.

  Jar of what looked as though it had been cold cream, although the label was gone and the contents had dried to a gray crust inside it. What had been a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush with wilted bristles but the yellow plastic handle as bright as though it had been bought yesterday. Nail scissors rusted shut forever. A tortoise-shell comb that was as good as new. A small jar, again with the label gone, possibly it had been deodorant; again only a gray crust left of what had been its contents. A little tin box that had contained aspirins. Those were the contents of the box of toilet articles.

  Little things, pathetic things. Are all the souvenirs of the dead so pathetic? This comb that had once gone through raven hair, this wisp of cloth, now falling apart at a touch, that had once been silk or rayon step-ins about soft young hips. These rotting stockings that had once encased slender legs to tender thighs. This bra that had cupped rounded breasts. This frock that had hidden Jenny from a hostile world—how hostile she had never known until that final, awful hour.

  Spread them carefully in the arid heat. Touch them gently with your sweating fingers, for they have not long to last and when they are gone all of Jenny will be gone; they’re all that's left of her now.

  He picked up the sodden box of stationery that, aside from the thing that might have been a wallet, was the highest hope. Did you save letters, Jenny?

  No, the wallet first. He picked it up and studied it carefully. It wasn't in as bad condition as he’d thought at first, now that it had dried a bit he could open it. It stuck together and he had to peel carefully, but it came apart, and it was empty. No money, no cards, nothing behind the cellophane window except leather. He worked with it, looking for something in some compartment, but there was nothing. Either it had been a new wallet that Jenny had not yet started to use, or Nelson had carefully seen that it was emptied before he’d buried the suitcase that had contained it.

  He put it down in disappointment and again pulled the box of stationery toward him across the table.

  Did you save letters, Jenny? Or, if you did, did your murderer take them out of this box as he may have taken identification out of your billfold?

  Craighill Bond; he could read the letters in the embossing on the lid of the box, although the ink of the printing was gone. He slid the box closer to him and this the bottom of it stuck to the table and the rest slid toward him. Well, he'd study the bottom of it later. He lifted carefully and the lid came up; two sides came with it and the other two fell away.

  Two piles of envelopes, stuck together in two solid pulpy masses. The paper underneath, a solid sheaf. This had been in the center of the suitcase, he remembered, or there’d be even less of it left.

  One by one he peeled the envelopes apart to make certain that they were all new, unused ones—although from the uniformity of the stacks he felt sure of that already.

  The paper too—until he picked up the solid sheaf of it and turned it over. The bottom sheet, although stuck to the others, was a different kind, a very slightly different size and shade, and it was written upon, although the ink of the writing was gone and there were only scratches and grooves to indicate that there had been writing there.

  Weaver's hands shook and the palms and backs of them were wet with sweat. He put the sheaf of stuck-together paper down before him on the table, bottom up, and studied the scratch marks. They were clear and definite; whoever had done that writing had used a stub pen and a heavy touch; it looked like a man’s writing rather than a woman's.

  The final word looked like a signature. It was a signature. He made it out.

  “Charles.”

  And the line above it. He bent and caught a reflection of the light in the faint markings. Last word of the l
ine, “love.” Something “all my love." "With all my love.”

  A letter—and legible—from Nelson to Jenny. And, if he’d gone through the suitcase before he'd buried it, he’d missed this letter because it had been under blank stationery at the bottom of the stationery box!

  Weaver stopped a minute. He had to. He poured himself another short drink—although just at that moment he felt soberer than he'd ever felt in his life—and he poured it only after shoving his chair back from the table and being sure that neither glass nor bottle came anywhere near the precious thing he'd just discovered.

  Just a short drink; he downed it at a gulp. He sat there a full minute before he pulled his chair back to the table.

  How gentle can you be? That’s how gentle he was as he picked up the sheaf of paper again and tried from one corner to see whether the bottom piece~the letter—would peel away from the rest without sticking or coming apart.

  It would. It did. A fraction of an inch at a time—but his fingers had suddenly become precision instruments that gauged the strain to a thousandth of an ounce. It peeled away and there was writing and even the ink, enough of it to show faintly, was still there.

  "Beloved Jenny—“

  He could read that much at a glance. No date, no return address. But— "Beloved Jenny—”

  Infinite care in a little room. A millimeter at a time he peeled, and he kept himself from trying to read more until he had the whole piece loose from the sheaf. And then the sheet was loose, separate He put it down flat on the table.

  Parts of it were more difficult to read than others, but the strokes of the coarse stub pen helped in places where the ink was faint.

  Beloved Jenny—

  I can hardly believe that you will be with me so soon now, that all of life and happiness lies before us, then and forever, that you will be my wife for all time to come.

  Let me know the day, Jenny darling, as soon as you can name it. I only wish that I could come to get you—but you know why it is far wiser that you come here to join me and that you leave