"What do you want to talk to me about?" Old Dog's voice was barely curious. At Maxwell's questioning glance, he added, "Stool and Tim will sit in, if it's all right."
"We are investigating the murder of Mister Batey Stailey. I expect you have heard about it"
"Hell, yes, I've heard about it. I'm glad somebody finally got that bastard. Four of his hired thugs beat hell out of me a few years back."
"You knew, Mister Stailey?"
"No, but we all knew about him. The law should have put him away years ago."
"Did you happen to know Mister Joseph Watson?"
"I don't recall the name." Old Dog did not wish to appear too knowledgeable.
"You know a Joseph Watson, Stool?" Dog asked.
"That was Hunch's real name, Dog." Stool sounded a bit ironic, Dog thought.
"Oh, Hunch. Yeah, I knew Hunch. A sorry, lousy, good-for-nothing to my thinking. I figure Stailey killed him, even if another guy did confess."
"And Mister Clout, did you know him as well?"
"Nope. I was never introduced to him." A small evasion there.
"We understand that you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon."
"Yep, had one since back in the fifties."
"We heard you sometimes carry a five-shot derringer type pistol."
"Now how did you know that?"
Calder, apparently the junior agent, appeared smug, but Maxwell was all business.
"A motorcyclist shot Mister Stailey, and Mister Watson, a cyclist, was killed along with Mister Clout, involving Mister Stailey. Our investigations have included both motorcycle and firearms directions. Your name surfaced in each investigation."
"Now that is amazing." Old Dog was genuinely astonished. The linkage had seemed remote, but he was prepared.
"We would like to see your pistol, Mister Carlisle."
Old Dog nodded. "I follow you. You figure I might have shot Clout and left my gun to incriminate Stailey."
Dog snorted disdainfully. "I guess you know there are thousands of those pistols out there, don't you?"
"We try to check everything, Mister Caslisle." Maxwell was firm.
"Tim, you know where I keep the pistol. Bring it here. Remember, it's loaded." Agent Calder unobtrusively unbuttoned his suit coat and slid a hand inside. Careful man, Old Dog thought, and not unwise. A loaded weapon was about to appear, and in this day and age anything could happen.
Dog said, "Have you taken a good look at me?"
Agent Maxwell did the answering. "Yes, we have."
"Then you will notice that I'm sick. Damned sick in fact." He held out a skeletal hand. "I'm dying of cancer. My skin is yellowing from liver failure, I haven't swallowed anything but milkshakes and pills in a month, and I've got just about enough strength left to get to the john. In a week or two I will be dead.
"Do you really think I'm the guy you're looking for?"
Agent Maxwell remained unapologetic. "Probably not, Mister Carlisle, but we try to check everything. We still wish to see your pistol."
Timmy reappeared and handed the derringer to Old Dog. Dog accepted the gun gingerly, holding it between two fingers. "Huh, doubt if it's been fired, although I picked it up used. Still holds the cartridges that came with it." Dog handed the pistol to Stool, who glanced at it casually before relaying to Agent Maxwell. Calder's hand was again in view.
Agent Maxwell examined the tiny pistol and jotted its serial number on a pad.
Old Dog said, "If I wasn't about to leave this planet, I'd object real loud to you taking down the number of my gun. We don't have gun registration yet, and unless my weapon is involved in a crime, you shouldn't have its number."
Maxwell's jaw muscles bunched a little, but his voice remained calm. "If your pistol is not involved, its serial number will not go beyond this file."
Old Dog was adamant. "You don't get it, do you? The point is, you don't have a right to it at all if it is not a crime gun. You have the pistol that killed Clout, so mine isn't it. So, why record my number?"
Maxwell replaced his notebook and stood. Agent Calder followed his example. He had wished to ask more, but Carlisle was clearly turning hostile. Jotting down the pistol's number had been a mistake. Carlisle was right. As far as they knew, the gun did not figure in the case. Country people could be damned touchy about their rights to be left alone.
The agent saw no further progress in this interview. They could return if necessary, but judging Carlisle's appearance, it would have to be soon.
Maxwell said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mister Carlisle." He placed the pistol on Old Dog's side stand. "We may have to return but probably not."
Maxwell extended a hand, and Old Dog accepted, still appearing miffed. Calder nodded, and the agents departed.
Stool watched the FBI drive away.
"You roweled them pretty good, Dog. Closed their interview right down."
Stool did not miss much, Old Dog recognized. Dog said, "Tim, take off for a while. Stool and I've got some serious palaver to work at."
"I've got to take my workout anyway, Uncle Dog. I'll be out in the barn pumping iron."
Dog said, "Now, where were we?"
"You were about to tell me something secret."
"After you cross your heart and hope to die that you'll keep what I say one hundred percent confidential, and then do what I ask."
Stool sighed, "All right, Old Dog, I give in. I accept the bribe and promise to do whatever it is you want . . . short of maiming or killing, that is."
Old Dog got grim. "It's a deal." He insisted on a binding handshake.
"Here it is then. I killed both Hunch and Clout."
Stool never blinked. "I had that figured."
"You did? How . . ."
"First of all, you asked a whole bunch of questions about Hunch down in Daytona. Too many coincidences, Adam. Clout beat you up, you wanted Hunch taken down, same kind of pistol, but I couldn't be sure until you showed the gun. "Stool pointed at the North American Arms Corporation pistol on Dog's stand. That pistol is number D 33345. Your gun, that you showed me one time, was D 34922." Stool chuckled, "Now I haven't checked, but I'll bet the pistol that punched Clout full of holes is serial numbered D 34922. Of course, no one could ever prove that it had been your gun."
"That was my gun's serial number? Holy hell, Stool, I didn't even recall that pistol's number. You're amazing."
"True, though sometimes I wish I could forget more. Too much clutter in my head. Trouble is, I don't know what to forget. Your gun number, for instance, I liked knowing that right now."
"All right, you figured out Hunch and Clout. I also shotgunned Bat Stailey. That was me you saw on TV."
Stool was again nodding. "I didn't guess that, Dog." Stool grinned, "You are a tough old buzzard. You rode that Yamaha like a kid would." Stool's eyes squinted. "I heard you bought a Jap bike down in Daytona." Stool appeared chagrined, "I should have made the connection."
"I'm sure glad you're on my side, Stool." Old Dog meant it.
It was unburdening to tell someone. Old Dog took his time explaining his wish to end meaningful—doing something worthwhile that no one else could be expected to manage.
Stool seemed to understand. He nodded often and became caught up in Old Dog's descriptions of how he had done it all, and finally, how he felt about it.
Before he was done, Timmy had finished weightlifting and had gone to his house.
Old Dog said, "Now we've come to your part, Stool.
"It's possible that down the road some innocent guy might get blamed for what I did. The guy who confessed to save Stailey has already recanted and is out. Hell, I doubt they'll even charge him with perjury or false confessing or anything else.
"Anyway, I don't want some innocent person suffering, so," Old Dog removed a small paper-wrapped package from the side stand drawer. "This is a typed explanation and description about like I just told to you. I tried to cover everything, like where I got the wire and, of course, where the Yamaha is bu
ried. That should be the clincher. I also wrote out a confession, so my signature would be there, and I inked my right thumb print over part of my mark. My fingerprints are on file from my military days.
"Your job will be to subscribe to the Harrisburg Patriot and the York newspaper, whatever its name is, for the next ten years. You'll check them to make sure no one gets nailed because of me. That isn't at all likely. I figure Stailey will be blamed, but who can tell?
"OK, that isn't all. After ten years, when Tim is old enough to handle it and maybe understand, you're to mail the confession anonymously to the FBI. That will close the case once and for all. Hell, with a little luck, the closing won't get big press coverage and the Carlisles will never know."
Stool nodded affirmation all the way through, but he waited a bit before commenting.
"All right, Dog. I'll do it with one suggestion. Let's make it fifteen years before I send in the confession. A man of thirty, about what Tim will be—won't he?—can handle things a heap better than he would at twenty-five."
"Well, that might be better, Stool, but you'll be as old as the hills by then. Hell, you'll be pushing seventy."
"I'm only fifty, Adam. If some grandma doesn't plow me under with her Pontiac, I'll be around."
"That's what I thought, and look at me."
"You didn't live right."
"Didn't live right? Hell, Stool, I didn't smoke or drink, and I . . ."
"The trouble with you, Dog, is that . . ."
Chapter 21
It was no longer pain. It had become gut grinding agony that nothing suppressed for long. Old Dog sweat and he vomited convulsively and too often—dry heaved from a stomach no longer able to digest solids. Hours of alertness became less than those of drug-induced sleep or stupor. Will and caring faltered.
Old Dog could not doubt that it was time. The great question was—had he waited too long? His was not a simple scheme of walking to a local lookout and swilling narcotic until his systems surrendered.
He had wished for a final adventure, a great all-consuming terminal challenge. He had publicly discussed it for a decade. He had privately weighed and firmed details for even longer. Now it was here, and what had sounded difficult but practical began to feel impossible and foolish—as he had expected it would.
Despite searing gut aches and the lance-like pains that spasmed his chest and lungs, Old Dog began his long planned moves.
His lucid, vigorous enough moments were limited and only generally predictable, so when he could, Dog strove for speed and efficiency.
Old Dog's directions to his chosen travel agent were terse, direct, and as clear as words could be made.
"I am going to Alaska.
"Two days from now, I wish to be picked up by limousine at my front porch in time to meet the most direct flight from Harrisburg to Anchorage that is available.
"At the airport, I must be wheelchair seated and boarded. My tickets must be in first class accommodations.
"On landing at Anchorage, a direct flight to Valdez must be waiting. If no flight is scheduled, a twin engine aircraft must be chartered and waiting. There must be no delay.
"At Valdez a helicopter must be waiting my arrival. It will fly me to milepost 62 on the Richardson Highway. There it will land and leave me. In case of inclement weather, an automobile will be substituted for the helicopter.
"Are there any questions?
"If you fail to confirm everything by this time tomorrow, I will cancel and book with someone else.
"Your limo driver will be paid in full, in cash, upon my arrival at Harrisburg International. Have your bill ready."
Next were the goodbyes.
Larry's took time because there were financial details to settle.
"This shack is now yours, Larry. All else that I have goes to Timmy, but handled as you feel best. It's all included here." Old Dog passed a manila envelope.
"There is also a bequest for you and Arlis. Nothing big, but it will give you a few trips abroad, if you'd like them." Dog grinned through his unremitting pain. "Arlis would like that. It will give her something to make her friends envious."
Dog bid them goodbye together. He had requested no tears, but both Tim and Arlis failed. Larry did little better. Old Dog hurt too much to join in. His concentration had moved on. It was clear he was not coming back, and they were already entering his past.
Old Dog traveled light. He carried no luggage, but beneath a heavy coat he wore his "vest of many pockets." Years before, Arlis had pocketed the old hunting vest. It held the only essentials that his journey demanded. A pocket held a six ounce bottle of seltzer water. Another contained a half pint of whiskey. He had a bottle of Mylanta and the larger bottle of Doctor Philip Klein's powerhouse drug mixture, plus codeine, aspirin, and Demerol. Cripes, he was a walking—well, wheel-chairing—pharmacy, but he could need it all.
A plane change was necessary in Chicago, but he was wheeled about like other baggage. Again airborne for the long hop, Old Dog indulged himself with a stiff swig of Klein's magic and drifted into unconsciousness, remembering kindly the rotund doctor, friend since their youth in Korea. More than forty years. It had been good . . .
The light plane to Valdez made heavy weather of it, but got down safely. The pilot had radioed ahead, and the helicopter waited, blades slowly turning.
Old Dog walked the short distance between aircraft, but required a boost to gain his seat in the chopper, and the minimal effort robbed him of breath. He passed two letters to the fixed wing pilot. "Drop those in the mail for me, will you?"
The pilot would and backed away with an informal salute.
The four-passenger helicopter rose and leaned forward. It darted away like an insect and within moments followed the highway north. To his right rear, Old Dog could see the Valdez pipeline terminus with a tanker loading. But the manmade things of this world no longer held much interest.
He told the pilot, "Follow the road about five hundred feet up. I'll recognize the spot"
The pilot was concerned, "You don't look good, sir. You sure you're all right?"
Old Dog tried not to sound impatient. "No, I'm not all right. In fact, I'm dying, but I know where I want to go. You get me there, and I'll be grateful."
The land climbed and the helicopter with it, but the flight was short. A sixty-two mile road can be much shorter by air. Old Dog easily spotted the cabins.
"OK, see the cabins, two of them off to the right?"
"Sure, I know those. You own 'em?"
"No, I read about them in a novel a few years back. Came up, saw the place, and liked it. Real special back up at the creek head."
Talking tired him, but this would be the last of it. "Set me down on that gravel bar, close to the stream."
"There's no one at those cabins, sir. You sure you want to get out here?"
Dog did not feel up to discussing. "Just set her down and let me out. That's the deal we've got."
"Yes, sir. Going down." To hell with it. If the old goat wanted out, that's what he would get.
Touchdown was nice. Old Dog got his door open. He handed across a folded one hundred dollar bill. "Thanks, pilot, and don't worry about me. It's all planned out."
The pilot watched the staggery old guy get out from under the blades and without a backward glance head for the creek edge. He turned his machine into the wind and added power and collective. Fresh out of the mountains, Ernestine Creek spread wide into a dozen shallow channels. He saw his passenger already crossing, but not heading directly for the cabins.
The pilot made a pass, but the figure had disappeared into the thick spruce and willow thicket along the stream. Maybe the old duffer wasn't as decrepit as he appeared. What the hell, he'd done his part, and a hundred buck tip was all right even by high priced Alaskan standards.
Old Dog lay just within the thicket. It was as far as he could get right now. At least he had gotten hidden. If he had gone down in the open the pilot might have had second thoughts about leaving him.
>
So far, so good, but he was terribly weak, and that scared him more than the unremitting grind in his guts and lungs and back, and for the first time, a really mean pain in his groin.
He lived now on whatever stores his body had left. There were no Dairy Queens on Ernestine Creek. There was nothing for miles in any direction. Cars might pass on the two lane highway, but even their sound was lost before it could reach him. This was the way he had planned it, but he had not then felt the agonies. Hell, he could die right here beside the stream. What difference would a few hundred yards make?
All the difference! It was always easiest to surrender. Like every human, he had quit more than once when he should have plugged ahead, but this was the last one. He owed it to himself, to all the listeners he had told confidently how he would do it. If they ever needed to find him, he had to be where he had said he would be.
Old Dog got up. The land began a gentle upward slope, and that was his direction. He gripped willows for support and rested every four steps. God, his lungs hurt, but the inhalers no longer helped. Another hour, if he could keep going. Surely he could make that. He took another four steps, then managed another three.
He woke to horrendous groin pain. A scream started in his throat, but he choked it down and rolled over. He had fallen face down, and his pelvis had lain across a mossy rock. No wonder he hurt. Moving helped. In desperation, Old Dog swallowed a not too large dose of Klein's mixture. Not too much he hoped. He was wet to the knees from crossing the stream, and to lie here through an Alaskan night was probably to die here.
How far had he come? A good way apparently. That meant at least two hundred yards in his condition. The hill sloped sharply upward from here. If he could go another two hundred or so, he would be there, but it was steeper than he remembered. So what, he would crawl like an animal. He was not done yet.
First, his marks. He had promised tape to show direction. Old Dog dragged a small roll of blue tape from a vest pocket and made a few waist-high wraps around a tree trunk.
Old Dog Page 17