The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  With his usual charm, Mile told Simon to shut up.

  When I. noticed Art Reeson in the doorway, I couldn’t decide whether to feel relieved or worried. Rock and Sam stood right behind him. He and Rock wore a certain amount of snow, but most of it was on him. His coat shed cakes of the stuff, he had snow in his hair, even snow in his eyebrows, snow packed on his legs. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at Cat and me and Ginny like he wondered how much trouble we might give him.

  In a lame voice, Rock explained, “I couldn’t think of anything else, so I went to find Art. But he was already on his way. Then Sam found us.”

  “Mr. Altar says the phone’s dead.” Reeson sounded more than ever like he’d done too much shouting, and his hoarse rasp made what was left of my stomach twist. For some reason I felt sure that I wouldn’t like what came next. “That shouldn’t have happened,” he continued. “We have snow up here all the time. It never pulls down the phone lines.”

  The liver spots on Rock’s scalp gave him a diseased appearance. He said, “Art checked the cars.”

  “We’ve never had trouble with the phones,” Reeson insisted. “That made me nervous. I wanted to be sure we’ve still got a way out of here.”

  He stopped.

  “Don’t drag it out,” Ginny drawled. “Tell us the good news.”

  Reeson shrugged. He didn’t have any trouble looking at her straight. “Nothing works. The van, Truchi’s truck, my four-wheel drive—even the snowmobile. They’ve been immobilized. Somebody took the rotors out of all the distributors.

  “We can’t leave. We can’t get help. We’re stuck.”

  Probably Maryanne whimpered or groaned. Probably Mile swore. Probably Queenie said something like, “Oh, no!” But I couldn’t be sure. Mac Westward was laughing too loud.

  12

  Apparently Reeson didn’t know whether to take offense or not. He ignored everyone who tried to question him—Hardhouse, Drayton, even Ginny. “What’s so funny, Mr. Westward?”

  Mac stopped laughing like someone had flipped a switch and turned the sound off. “Nothing. Nothing at all. This is just perfect. It’s just like in all the novels.”

  “Don’t say that, Mac,” Queenie murmured as if she knew she couldn’t stop him. “Don’t say it.”

  He said it without pausing. “A group of people get together for something they think is innocent. But it isn’t innocent at all. They’re cut off, isolated. Then the murders start. They try to figure out who’s doing it before they all die, but they can’t. Finally there are only two people left. One is the murderer. The other isn’t. But the reader doesn’t know which is which. The classic murder mystery. Thornton Foal wrote a book just like it several years ago.”

  Then he started to laugh again, cackling like a gooney bird.

  “Mac!” Connie’s command was like the way she’d slapped Buffy, sharp and to the point. “Pull yourself together.”

  Westward stopped again. Without transition he went all red and puffy around the eyes, like he was allergic to laughter.

  “This is crazy!” Houston Mile protested at Reeson. He could’ve used authority lessons from Connie, but he did his best. “Ah won’t have it. You are incompetent, boy, and Deerskin Lodge’ll be liable!” I hadn’t realized that he knew such big words. “How’d you allow this to happen?”

  Reeson fixed Mile with the sort of glare I’ve always wished I could produce—the sort that makes people turn pale. He hardly raised his voice, but we all heard him.

  “Did you call me ‘boy’?”

  Mile probably wanted to yell some more, but the words didn’t come out. Instead he gaped like he had something nasty stuck in his throat.

  “I must have misheard you,” Reeson commented without a trace of humor.

  “All right,” Ginny put in quickly, “that’s enough. Both of you boys can show off your macho to each other later. We have a problem. We need to make some decisions.

  “If we stay cooped up in this room, we’ll start hitting each other. Let’s go to the den. Brew, Art—make sure the windows are covered.” She didn’t want anyone to take potshots at us.

  Sam nodded sharply. “Good idea.”

  “Who?” Maryanne quavered. “Who’s left? Why would anybody want to shoot at us?”

  No one took any notice of her.

  “I’ll go with you,” Hardhouse said to Reeson and me. Offering to share the heroics.

  Reeson didn’t thank him. Neither did I.

  Lara made no effort to hold him back.

  “If you don’t mind,” Connie said firmly to Ginny, “I’ll take Buffy to her room and stay with her. She doesn’t have anything to contribute at the moment. And she’s in no condition to be left alone. If you can’t make decisions without me, let me know.”

  As an idea, that one stank. We should all have stayed together. Nevertheless Ginny gave her permission with a nod.

  I didn’t argue the point. Reeson, Hardhouse, and I returned to the den.

  We weren’t particularly nervous about shutting the blinds and closing the curtains. Reeson and Hardhouse probably believed that Simon qualified for the role of Cat’s murderer. And I was half giddy with the smell of port and blood, not to mention the hot liquid sensation burbling in my guts. When we were done, Reeson stoked up the fires while Hardhouse went back to the parlor to let Ginny know. Soon everyone except Connie and Buffy was in the den.

  Ginny kept Abel covered, although he didn’t make any threatening moves. Probably thinking too hard to actually do anything. Holding hands, the Draytons sat down on one of the couches. Mile sat down, too, collapsed fatly into a heavy armchair, but Maryanne stayed on her feet, behind his chair with her hands on his shoulders. The balance between them had shifted subtly. They were both scared, but now she was the one doing the comforting.

  In contrast, the Hardhouses had resumed acting like an estranged couple. More changes. Still participating in the heroics, he placed himself on guard duty at the entrance to the hallway that led to Buffy’s room. She came over to me.

  “Brew.” She reached out, but my expression must’ve warned her against touching me. Her hands faltered in front of my chest, fluttered back to her sides. “Are you all right? You look awful.” Fortunately she kept her voice low. “What did she do to you? What was that woman doing to you?”

  It took me a moment to realize that her question had something to do with sex or alcohol.

  I shook my head. Assuming that I wanted to talk to her at all, now wasn’t the time.

  If Westward noticed Lara’s attitude, he didn’t show it. He had other things on his mind. Whatever had started him laughing earlier was gone. Now he looked almost as lost as Rock. The bafflement in his eyes made me wonder whether he even knew who he was without the other half of Thornton Foal.

  I stayed on my feet, ostensibly guarding the front door.

  Ginny had Simon sit down. She pointed out seats to Lara and Mac. Then she took a chair herself, sitting where she could see everyone. Reeson she left squatting by the nearest hearth, tinkering with the coals. Deliberately she put her .357 down on an end table by her right hand.

  “Art,” she began before anyone could get the impression that she wasn’t in charge, “what about Faith and the Carbones? They’re stuck in this with us. Shouldn’t they be here?”

  “Faith didn’t shoot anybody,” he said flatly, like he’d missed the point of the question. “I told her to stay home with the doors locked. If you want to get at her, you’ll have to go through me.”

  But he hadn’t missed the point. “The Carbones need to know,” he went on. “They have a right. But they didn’t shoot anybody either. They’ve been here longer than I have. They like the job and the hours and the place. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all better suspects.”

  I accepted that. So did Ginny. “All right,” she said, sounding as steady and uncompromising as he did. “That’s good enough for now. You talk to them when you get the chance.”

  Reeson nodd
ed at the flames.

  “We have several things to consider,” she continued to the back of his head. “We need you for all of them. You’re the manager here—you know what our resources are, what we can do. Like it or not, we’re dependent on you.”

  He nodded again. The firelight in his eyes gave him a look of sharp concentration.

  Ginny raised three fingers and touched them one at a time with the tips of her claw. “First, we need some way to get a message out of here, call for help. We can’t wait around for a thaw—or for one of us to find those rotors. Second, we need to keep Simon out of trouble”—she smiled bleakly—“until the cops get here.” Simon winced at this, but she ignored him. “Third, we need the rest of those guns locked up. We can’t let anyone else appropriate any artillery.”

  Before Reeson could respond, Maryanne protested in a wobbly voice, “You still sound like you think Simon didn’t do it. Like you think we’re still in danger. I don’t understand.”

  “That can wait.” Ginny was in no mood for interruptions. “Right now, we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

  Sam released Queenie’s hand, shifted forward in his seat. “I don’t think so, Ginny. I’m sure you’re right about the practical situation. But we also have an emotional problem. We’re all scared. A woman has been murdered. We need to know who did it. I don’t mean that the things you listed aren’t important, but we need this first. If Simon didn’t do it, this is a life-or-death issue for all of us. The cops can’t help us. Locking Simon up won’t help us. And we may need those guns.

  “What do you know that we don’t, Ginny?”

  Mile and Mac muttered their agreement. Maryanne nodded eagerly. Queenie put her hand on Sam’s shoulder, a touch of approval. Hardhouse stuck out his jaw and watched Ginny with his eyes smoldering. Off in his own world, Rock mumbled something that sounded like, “How did he get them?”

  Ginny pulled in a deep breath and scanned the room. Then she gave in.

  Facing Simon, she said, “I’ll go first. After that it’s your turn.”

  While his eyes widened, she turned to the rest of us. “I won’t bore you with the standard lecture about circumstantial evidence. I won’t talk about how ‘things are never what they seem’—except you’d be amazed how often that turns out to be true. I’ll keep it simple.

  “I know Joseph didn’t do it. I was with him in his room. I know Brew didn’t do it. Cat wasn’t shot at close range. What about the rest of you? What alibis have you got?”

  “We were in the den,” Sam returned promptly.

  “All of you?”

  He thought for a second. “No. Houston and I. Maryanne.” He looked around. “That’s all.”

  “Queenie?” Ginny asked.

  Queenie didn’t hesitate. “I was in our room. Alone.”

  “Lara?”

  Lara raised her hands to her face as if she were hiding a blush. “Mac and I were out on the porch,” she said awkwardly. “Talking. Isn’t that right, Mac? We came inside when we looked in the window and saw the den was empty.”

  “Yes!” Mac confirmed almost assertively. “We were together. Neither of us did it. This is crazy.”

  “Unless you did it together,” Ginny retorted, smiling like a Venus flytrap. “Team murder is dangerous. You never know how far you can trust your partner. But it’s an efficient way to kill somebody and not get caught.

  “What about you, Rock?”

  “How did he get all of them?” Rock muttered. He hadn’t heard a word Ginny said. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

  Ginny shrugged. “What about Connie? What about Buffy? Anybody know where they were?”

  No one answered.

  “You see the problem. Only nine of us have alibis. Only seven of them look good on paper. How many of you are willing to swear Connie or Buffy or Rock or Mac or Lara or Queenie isn’t capable of murder?”

  “Well, speaking for myself—” Queenie put in.

  Ginny overrode her. She had no intention of wasting time on a general discussion. “Your turn, Simon,” she announced. “Give it your best shot.”

  He was readier now than he’d been earlier—he knew his role. Just for a second, he faced her sincerely and said, “Thanks.” Then he got started.

  “I know I’m the obvious suspect.” He tried to control his tension by clenching his fists. “I’m the one who came inside all covered with snow right after—” He swallowed hard. “I can’t prove I was just taking a walk because I didn’t like what she was doing. with Brew. Joseph was bad enough. Two men in two days was more than I could stomach. I can’t prove I’m innocent.

  “But look at what you’re accusing me of. Think about it. I stole some guns—how many?” He glanced at me. “I don’t even know how many are missing. But I stole them. I hid the rest, took that rifle, and went outside. I disabled all the vehicles, just to make sure I couldn’t escape. Did I mention I’ve got a death wish? I’ve been planning to get caught all along.

  “Anyway, then I shot Cat.

  “How did you find the rifle?” he asked Ginny.

  “You left your window open,” she answered. “You climbed in through the window, hid the rifle in your closet, then went out again to come in innocently through the front door.”

  “Right, of course, how could I forget. I went back to my room through the window and ditched the rifle in the most obvious place I could think of, just to prove I knew what I was doing when I hid the rest of those guns.” He rolled his eyes, spread his hands at the ceiling. “Then I went outside again and came in at exactly the right moment to make you all believe I shot the woman I love. And of course the first thing I did when Ginny caught me was confess.”

  His hands slapped down onto his thighs.

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  He silenced the group. He had no talent for righteous indignation—we weren’t bowled over by the power of his performance. Nevertheless his simple logic silenced us. When you added it up the way he did, it really did sound stupid.

  After a minute, Ginny repeated, “You see the problem.”

  “Since you put it that way”—Hardhouse grinned wolfishly—“I have to admit you’ve got a point. I don’t think I’ve ever hired a busboy that dumb.”

  Mac steepled his fingers judiciously. “Unless he’s being clever instead.” The professional novelist speaking. “He may be trying to conceal his guilt by making it appear stupidly obvious.”

  “Oh, come on!” Simon protested. “Damn it, what do you people use for brains? If I wanted to kill her, this is the worst place to do it—and the worst conditions. Here we know one of us did it. I was sure to get caught. Why didn’t I do it back in L.A., where I could dump the body and nobody would ever know she was even missing? Do you think this is the first time she’s ever cheated on me? Do you think—”

  Ginny cut him off. “That’s enough. The point’s been made. You’re the only suspect we’ve got, but that doesn’t mean you’re the only suspect there is.” To the rest of us, she added, “Use your heads. If we want to stay alive, we need to make sure Simon can’t shoot anybody else. And we have to assume he didn’t shoot anybody at all. We have to plan for the possibility there’s still a killer loose around here.”

  Reeson had turned away from the fire to watch Ginny closely. When she stopped, he said softly, “You know, you’re good at this. That makes it interesting.”

  In a plaintive tone, like he was tired of waiting, Rock asked, “How did he get all those rotors? Weren’t any of the cars locked? Didn’t you have the snowmobile in a shed somewhere? Wasn’t the shed locked?”

  Ginny’s grasp on the situation had apparently improved Reeson’s humor. Cheerfully he scowled. “Did you lock your van, Mr. Altar?”

  Rock blinked blankly. “No.”

  Reeson shrugged. “Why should you? Why should Faith or Truchi or I lock any of our vehicles? Nobody steals cars up here. Or snowmobiles either. And nobody immobilizes them. We depend on them too much.

>   “Most of the time,” he concluded, “we don’t even take the key out of the ignition.”

  “Good,” Hardhouse commented. “I like it. You’re right—this makes it interesting.” He sounded sarcastic, but I detected relish. “It’s looking like more fun all the time.”

  “At any rate,” Sam rasped, “it looks like more fun than convincing the cooks to keep their hair out of the soup. Right?”

  I got the distinct impression that he’d decided he didn’t like Joseph Hardhouse.

  Hardhouse grinned. “You should try it. After six months in the restaurant business, you’ll think having your teeth extracted is more fun.”

  “Too bad it makes so much money,” Sam retorted. “Otherwise you could quit with a clear conscience.”

  Hardhouse didn’t have to grope for a comeback. “Maybe if I quit and became a doctor,” he said, “I wouldn’t have such trouble keeping my conscience clear.”

  “Listen.” Ginny snapped her claw to get their attention. “Bicker on your own time. We’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

  Sam held up his hands to show that he was finished.

  From my point of view, the smile Hardhouse aimed at Ginny looked positively voracious.

  “If I’ve made myself clear,” she went on, “we’re back where I started. We have decisions to make.”

  “Not really.” As smooth as a hydraulic lift, Reeson rose to his feet. “As you pointed out, I’m the manager here. And as he pointed out”—with a jerk of his head, he indicated Mile—“the lodge doesn’t want any liability suits. That makes the situation my responsibility. I’ll take care of it. I don’t mean I’m going to catch your killer for you. But I can solve some of the other problems.

  “Over the years, I’ve done a fair amount of winter camping. I have the gear and the experience to cope with this weather. In the morning, I’ll hike out of here. If conditions aren’t so bad outside the valley, I can probably reach a phone by the end of the day. Otherwise it may take me two days. But the Carbones and Faith can handle everything here while I’m away.”