Our Fathers (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  He began pacing it off. At twelve, he veered a hair to his right so as not to miss the steps, continuing his count as he went up. Ten steps and two more long paces brought him to the front door.

  "Six paces to go."

  They went through the door, and he stepped them off.

  "Here?" asked Kelly.

  "Absolutely," said Ben.

  They stood around a spot just a few feet short of the coffee table.

  "I don't think so," said Diane.

  "Right here," said Ben defiantly. "Has to be."

  Diane retreated to a corner of the couch. She pulled her feet up, crossed her arms and looked back at them.

  "You're not even going to help us look?"

  "Why look? That's already been done."

  "When?"

  "Night before last. When we found Terry on the floor."

  "On the floor?" asked Kelly. She looked accusingly at Terry.

  "I told you about it."

  "You didn't say anything about being on the floor."

  Alex said, "That's right. This place was really turned over."

  "But not by us," said Ben. "We haven't looked."

  "No, but we put everything back."

  "But we didn't know what to look for."

  "But the searcher did. And whoever it was didn't find it. They hit Terry with that chair, and stole the first clue."

  "With a chair?" said Kelly. "Not the one by the door, I hope. My Aunt Megan gave me that. It's very old."

  "And very hard," added Terry.

  "Anyway," said Diane. "It's not here."

  Ben turned on her. "And I suppose you know where it is."

  Diane felt she might have gone too far. After all, was she really sure? All those words had been designed to mislead. There had been so many ways to misunderstand. But as she saw Ben's face and heard his derisive tone, she couldn't help saying, "As a matter of fact, yes."

  She saw expressions ranging from disbelief to pity.

  "Oh, for God's sake. Don't you people ever see things?"

  Alex asked cautiously, "What things?"

  She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "In your head. When somebody says something, doesn't it make a picture in your mind? Don't you see it?"

  Silence.

  "Listen. Picture yourselves out in the street. What were the directions? Turn to the left. All right, you're facing the house. Now what's next?"

  "Go straight ahead for thirty paces," said Terry.

  "Right. Picture it. Straight ahead. Not up the steps, across the porch, through the door and into the house. Just straight ahead."

  Ben laughed. "Get real, Diane. Straight ahead puts us . . ." He closed his eyes and bit his lip as he felt the others looking at him.

  " …under the house," finished Alex.

  Thirty paces brought them past Terry's car, nearly to the rear of the house. Since it was supported by pilings, the outer walls were only crossed lathing strips, but at this point the nearest streetlight was hidden by the house next door. Only Terry's flashlight kept them from walking into the pilings, or tripping over old paint cans. Now that the sun was down, it was much colder. A smell of dampness surrounded them.

  "Great place for a treasure hunt," said Christy. "This is creepy."

  "Stop complaining," said Ben. "This is it. Is there anything here to dig with?"

  Terry moved the light around, but saw nothing that would be much help.

  "That's all right," said Ben. "It's just sand."

  He dropped to his knees and tried digging, then stopped. "This isn't like the beach," he complained. "It's packed pretty hard."

  "I don't think we need to dig," said Diane.

  Ben looked up. Now what? He said nothing.

  "This last message said, 'Remember my note.' I've been wondering what he meant by that."

  "What note?" asked Kelly. "You mean the first clue?"

  "I don't think so. I think it's the note that came with the will. There was something in it that sounded kind of weird at the time. Something about being low when we came to the end. I think that's what he was referring to."

  "Yeah," said Alex. "I remember that. He said we'd be so low we'd have to reach up to touch bottom. I don't feel all that bad."

  "Picture it," insisted Diane. "Think of it literally."

  They looked up and saw the heavy joists running from side to side, and above them the angled boards of the floor.

  "I don't believe it," said Alex. "Would you look at that. He even told us it was under the house. You have to look up to see the floor."

  "He didn't say 'look up'," said Terry. "He said 'reach up'."

  As he spoke, he ran the beam of light along the floor above him, along the joists on either side. Nothing. He went back over them, slowly now, but saw only wood. He took a step forward and tried the next area. On the backside of the two-by-twelve joist were several long strips of silver-gray duct tape with a long flat bulge in the center.

  "Gotta' be," said Ben. "Gotta' be!"

  Somebody asked, "Have you found it?"

  "I think so."

  Terry turned and reached. He had to stand on his toes, holding the light with one hand, pealing the tape away from the wood with the other. He gave one last pull and came away with a thin packet about ten inches long and four wide.

  Alex Ford's two hundred pounds slammed into him just as his heels were about to touch the ground. He hit the sand with Alex on top of him, and immediately felt pain in his left shoulder. He felt Alex's weight on him and lashed out, struggling to get free.

  "Hey, don't be swinging at me." It was Alex.

  "Get the hell off me."

  "I'm trying, dammit."

  The weight rolled off and Terry sat up, holding his left arm. "What the hell did you do that for?"

  "Somebody rammed me from behind."

  They looked around at nothing. Terry had somehow turned the flashlight off as he fell, and had dropped it when he landed. Their eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness.

  "Where's the flashlight? I can't see a thing."

  They groped around blindly for a few seconds. Then the light came on. Ben had found it. He swept it around. They saw Kelly and Christy standing together.

  Terry asked, "You two all right?"

  "I guess so," answered Kelly. "How about you?"

  "I'll live. Where's Diane?"

  The light moved again, and they saw Diane sitting off to one side, her eyes on the sand in front of her. Alex moved over to her. "You all right, Babe?"

  She didn't answer.

  Terry asked, "Did you guys see anything? What happened?"

  Kelly said, "Something, somebody came charging by us, really fast."

  "And ran right into Alex," added Christy. "Then the light went out."

  Terry looked about in confusion and, as he did, saw a movement just beyond the latticework at the side of the house. It was not even a shadow, just darkness moving against darkness, quickly, toward the beach. He turned back to Kelly. "Get everyone upstairs. Try to keep them there."

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  "I'm not sure. I'll be back soon."

  "Stay here."

  "No. I've been knocked down once too often. I'm getting sick of it."

  Before she could argue, he went out past the car. A few seconds later, she saw his darkness moving the same way the other had.

  "Hey," said Ben. "Where's the package?"

  Kelly said, "Terry must have it."

  "No. He doesn't. It's gone. I've looked all over. It's not here."

  "Then I think he went after it."

  "I'll go with him. He might need help."

  "No." She put strength in her voice. "Nobody else goes. We need you here. Bring the light over here."

  She went over to where Diane was sitting in the sand. Alex was kneeling beside her, talking softly to her. She was pulled into a ball, her arms around her knees, her eyes closed. Christy was on her other side, looking worried. Kelly knelt in front of her and asked,
"Is she all right?"

  "I don't know," said Alex. "She won't say."

  "Come on, dear, let's go upstairs."

  There was no response. Kelly asked, "What's the matter? Can you tell us?"

  She opened her eyes but didn't look at any of them. "Why?" she asked. "I just don't understand. Why?"

  They glanced at each other, wondering what she was talking about. What didn't she understand? God knows there was enough to choose from. Kelly could have made a long list of things she didn't understand about all this.

  Christy put her hand on Diane's shoulder. "Diane, would you like some tea?"

  She didn't answer but, after a few seconds, slowly nodded.

  Terry tried to stay low and quiet, but there was no path here. The dunes ran parallel with the beach, so he ended up going over rather than around them. Once he tripped, landing heavily, reminding him painfully to stop trying to use the left arm.

  When he reached the flat sand of the beach, he stopped, peering both ways. Only twenty or thirty yards to his right he saw a figure running along the beach, crouching a little, carrying something in the left hand. He took off after it. The only light was from the far off pier, so everything was silhouette and shadow.

  As he ran, concentrating on the figure in front, he became aware that there was more than one. Ahead of the shadow he was chasing, perhaps another seventy yards, was someone else. The far off figure was running desperately, all out, arms pumping. Terry wondered how far anyone could run through sand at that pace.

  Whoever it was stopped, bent over, hands on knees, trying to get air into the lungs. As it straightened up, it looked back. One arm came up and he heard someone yell, then the sound of the gun and the buzz of a bullet.

  He was on his face in the sand, not knowing how he had got there. He decided that, all things considered, it wasn't such a bad place to be. He knew that small guns were notoriously inaccurate at that range. Still, he was in no hurry to get up. He spat out sand, looked up and saw the far off figure running again. Where was the other one? Probably up there hugging sand, like himself.

  A light came on just ahead and shone straight into his eyes, blinding him. Then it was off. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the glare on his retinas go away.

  "Mr. Eason?"

  A woman's voice. Who was this?

  "That's right."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "Go on back, sir. We'll take care of this."

  We? Who is we? Of course, the police. Chervenic would be around.

  "Yeah. Right."

  He lay still, waiting. He saw her get up and start off. She angled down to the firmer sand just above the water, running with a slow, easy stride. She didn't seem to be trying to catch the figure ahead, just keep pace with it.

  Terry got up slowly, undecided at first, but found himself moving in the same direction. He followed her to the firmer sand, matching her pace. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. That nut up ahead had a gun this time. He should go back and see that the others were all right. Kelly and Alex would do that. He should go tell them what was going on. But what was going on? He knew he shouldn't be here, but he also knew he wouldn't go back. The truth was, he wanted to know who had tried to ruin Aunt Megan's chair with his head.

  As they approached the pier, the row of lights placed at intervals along the railings gave them each a dozen shadows. The figure ahead of him still moved easily, while the other one struggled through the sand, changing directions now, obviously heading for the stairs leading up to the pier.

  Terry had never been a jogger. His only real exercise for the past two weeks had been a brisk walk to the pier and back. Now he found that running, especially in sand, was a whole different world. His legs were all right, but his wind deserted him. When he stopped, he could hear his heart pounding rapidly. He finished by alternating between walking when he had to, running when he could.

  Approaching the stairs, he saw the lighted windows of the restaurant above him. A couple, sitting where he and Chervenic had been, were looking out at the pier, mildly curious. He went up the steps breathing heavily, taking the last few as quietly as he could, stopping just before he reached the top.

  CHAPTER 24

  Terry felt he was standing in the wings of dimly lit stage. He knew that this was real, but still there was that detached part of his mind, the author who was watching the actors, judging the scene.

  Closest to him was Mickie. She stood just a few steps away, her back to him, facing out along the pier. She still held the flashlight in her left hand. In her right was a automatic pistol. She held it down at her side, but he could sense her alertness, knowing it could come up very quickly.

  Beyond her, on the other side, was Harry. He, too, was facing away, but his stumpy figure was unmistakable. His hands were empty, hanging at his sides. He stood very still, his attention pinned on the man standing by one of the light stanchions. The man looked vaguely familiar to Terry, but the glaring light was directly over his head, distorting his features into planes of exaggerated light and shadow. He was still breathing heavily. In his right hand was the gun, smaller than the one Mickie held, dangling at his side as if he had forgotten it. His other hand held the package, still trailing strips of tape. He held it tightly, close to him, very aware of it.

  "Put the gun down," said Harry. He spoke softly, very slowly. "There's nowhere to go."

  The man glanced at the gun, as if it were of no importance. He shrugged, but left it where it was. He looked over the rail, then out toward the ocean.

  "It's just sand down there," said Harry.

  The man peered closely at Harry, lifting the package. "You know what these are?"

  Harry nodded.

  "Do you know what he was doing with them?"

  "Yes."

  He seemed to shrink a little. "She mustn't see them."

  "I know," Harry said. Then he added, "She won't."

  The man looked up in surprise. "Can you do that? How could you stop it?"

  "There's no need for her to see them. No need at all."

  The man stood quietly, wanting to believe, not believing, considering. "How can I trust you?"

  Harry didn't answer immediately. He seemed to be thinking about it. "I don't know," he finally said. "But as God is my witness, she'll never see those letters, or ever hear what they say."

  He was quiet again for a few, very long minutes, seeing Harry's bulk, Mickie's gun, Terry standing on the steps. He seemed to be making up his mind about something. He looked around the pier again. Harry was right. There was nowhere to go.

  He turned his eyes toward Terry. Raising his voice a little, he said, "I'm sorry. I hope you weren't badly hurt. I apologize."

  It was then that Terry recognized Robert Carlsberg. "It's okay," he said. "I'll live."

  Robert looked back to Harry, his eyes suddenly shrewd. "You don't really have any evidence, do you?"

  Harry was surprised at the sudden switch. He decided to use it. "You were careful. You left no fingerprints, and didn't step in the blood. But you had blood all over you. Not yours, of course, but you had to do something about it. You took a shower and put on some of your brother's clothes. Very cool. You took everything with you when you left—except for one thing. After the shower, you chucked the wet towel on the edge of the tub." Harry pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly. "Big mistake. You should have taken that, too. You know what the forensic people found in the towel?"

  Robert's eyes flicked over to Mickie's gun, then back.

  Harry said, "A pubic hair." He noticed a bench built into the rail, sat down at one end. "I'm getting too old for this running around."

  Robert hesitated, then collapsed tiredly at the other end. He held the gun in his lap, still pointed at Harry. He said, "It must be Matt's."

  "No. They have a bunch of ways of classifying hair. This one doesn't match his in any way."

  "So it wasn't his. That leaves the rest of the world."

&n
bsp; Harry smiled frostily. I'll bet you that a sample of your hair will match the one we found. And then there's DNA fingerprinting. Matching genetic material. Juries love it. "I'll bet you the lab will prove that not only could you have been there, but you were there. And you lied about it. And that's really going to hurt. Even when I told you it might have been suicide, you lied about being there."

  He stopped, but got no response. Robert was breathing a little faster now. Harry remembered how he had looked at the funeral—sallow, sweating, eyes half closed, and his being late for the reading of the will. He had been sick then, but not with the flu. It had been fear. Fear of what might have been left to his daughter. And it was there again. Harry said, "You don't look so well. Feeling all right?"

  Robert didn't bother answering. He gave Harry a hostile stare, then barely nodded.

  "Good. Now, what about motive? This is the tricky one. The way I see it, we have three to choose from. First, there's the old, unresolved grudge. Maria Rhyne."

  "No! That's ridiculous. That was finished years ago."

  "Well," said Harry, "I'll admit, it's not my favorite. But a lot of people seem to have known about it, and your ex can testify how violent you became when she brought it up."

  "No, no, that was years ago. No!"

  "But it could show an underlying dislike. A sore spot, something that would make it easier. And I wouldn't be too quick to discard motives if I were you. If you're going to be tried for murder, you'd better have one. Nothing a jury hates more than someone who kills for no good reason. It scares the hell out of them. They figure if there's a reason, that's okay, they're safe, because nobody wants to kill them. But the motiveless killing, that's different. That can get anyone." He paused and then went on. "But of course, that's not a problem here."

  "I suppose you mean the inheritance."

  "That's the obvious one. A good one, too. It's simple. Take one long-standing grudge, add a few hundred thousand dollars—hey, what jury would have any trouble with that?"

  Carlsberg almost smiled. "Good try, Chervenic. You make it sound as if I should think up a good motive, then confess to it. I'm a well-known, respected businessman, not a serial killer or a madman. The fact is no jury is going to find me guilty of anything unless you can come up with a reason they'll believe. And right now, you don't have one."