Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 6 – HIPPO'S HOUSE, AND THE ONE NEXT DOOR

  Carl Westmoreland, better known as Hippo, looked up from gardening to see a dark blue sedan with tinted windows pulling into the gated lane that ran past his house and back to outbuildings. He didn't recognize the vehicle, but he recognized the short, blonde, middle-aged woman who got out of the back seat to open the gate. That Emma was in the back seat, and not "riding shotgun" as she liked to call it, brought him to full attention. The driver looked, as best as Hippo could tell at the distance and through the windscreen, to be Emma's husband, Richard. So what in the world were they bringing him that had required her attention in the back seat? He set the hoe aside, dusted off, and went to meet them.

  Richard pulled up to him and rolled down a window. "I've brought you trouble, I'm afraid," he said.

  "So what else is new?" Hippo said. He looked in the back and saw Emma tending a man with bloody legs.

  "We might need for people to wonder if he's dead," Emma said, cryptically. "Even though it's just flesh wounds, or appears to be. So Plan A is to get him patched up and then hidden somewhere out of sight, but where he can stay in touch."

  The patient was eyeing Hippo appraisingly. That wasn't unusual. People seeking help outside normal channels were often obliged to be wary. What was different in this case was that the man had an unusual amount of intelligence showing in his eyes; not craftiness, just smarts, of a calm, mature sort. Here was a man who had a lot of understanding and sense, Hippo was sure of it. People like this usually went to regular doctors, at regular hospitals, or else to VIP centers, where staff rolled out the red carpet for them.

  "I'll explain inside. If you can help us, that is?" Richard said, politely giving the doctor an out.

  "As if I'd turn away a hurt man?" Hippo said.

  "Right. Knew we could count on you," Richard said.

  Richard and the doctor hauled Stolemaker inside the house. Richard started to explain the situation.

  "I'll handle this, thanks," Stolemaker said.

  "With my help, I hope," Hippo said. "I have seen gunshot wounds in two legs at once before, but never so evenly matched. Very artistic."

  Stolemaker smiled. "You'll do," he said.

  "Thanks. Any allergies?"

  "No."

  "You on any meds?"

  Stolemaker nodded. He tried to elaborate, but was drowned out by dog barking and wailing from next door.

  "They've been at it in rare form today," Hippo said, as soon as there was a lull. "Thank goodness it only comes in waves."

  "Sounds like something's wrong," Stolemaker said.

  Hippo laughed. "My neighbor specializes in adopting stray dogs with emotional problems. They do this off and on. You learn to ignore them."

  "Sounds like fresh disorder. He's taken on a new one, has he?" Richard said.

  "No, just the three," Hippo said. "Sometimes they forget they're currently well-situated, that's all. You have to expect that with dogs that have been abused, I guess. Flashbacks or something, I'd say. Dogs do have memories, you know."

  Emma went outside. "Everything all right over there?" she called out. A big dog jumped up and down and whined. A strange, corgi-like dog hauled itself out of the house through a dog door, and fixed miserable eyes on her. It wailed.

  Richard excused himself from the medical proceedings and went outside, nearly running into Emma as she came inside to get him.

  "Something's wrong over there," she said.

  "Sounds like it."

  "Looks like it, too. Look at the dogs. Especially the one by the door."

  "Go inside. I'll go check."

  "Not on your life. I'm coming with you."

  "Emma, my love, someone has to stay with the chief while he's compromised. Hippo's all right, I'm sure of it – but we've a duty, I'm afraid. We're being derelict as it is, both of us being out here."

  Anything less than her chief, and Emma probably would have argued that she had several duties, including watching out for her husband. But she went back inside.

  The corgi dragged back through the dog door and went through the house, wailing as it went.

  Richard checked his gun before he headed across: safety on, gun fully loaded, sitting properly in its holster. It was a new holster, radically different from the one he was used to. He moved his hand to the butt of the gun a couple of times, practicing. He hated changing holsters, maybe even more than changing weapons. Once a man had a weapon in his hand he could adjust to it, after all, but a weapon you couldn't grab was no use whatsoever.

  This was a much better holster design, the people in charge of weaponry had told him. He didn't care. He'd liked the old one.

  The grass and weeds weren't exactly dry, to put it mildly, plus seed pods kept attaching to his trousers and socks. He didn't like it, but sneaking in from the side beat waltzing around to the front. It was shorter, and he'd be visible from fewer windows, and less visible from the road.

  The fence between the two properties was a stout affair with spaced rows of sawn boards parallel to the ground. He looked for a gate, or one of those two-sided ladder or stair-step arrangements built into or over fences, which allows a person, or at least a nimble person, to get across in a semi-civilized fashion; old-fashioned movies loved them, especially as a device to allow the hero to assist the heroine by holding out a steadying hand as she stepped delicately over. He fought to remember the proper name for the things, but couldn't. All he could remember were the sappy movie scenes. Way down the fence line, he saw one, built into a wire fence that Richard thought of as sheep mesh, even though cattle were grazing either side of it. Stile. That was the silly name for the steppy things. He'd rather use a gate, if it came to that. It seemed less prissy, somehow, unless perhaps you were at a run and could throw some hurdling into the stile procedure.

  There wasn't a gate or stile where it could help him, though, so he hitched his pants and climbed over the fence where he was. On the chance that Emma was watching, he tried to look like Gary Cooper or some other cowboy hero as he swung astride the rails and on over. He landed wrong on one ankle. Movie star style required a bit of rehearsal or something. He squelched an urge to peek backward, to see if Emma had caught him out at being dramatically clumsy.

  The big mutt looked uncertainly at him. "Some watchdog you are," Richard chided gently, as he held out his hand for the quivering dog to sniff. The dog sniffed and whined. "All right, what's wrong, girl?" he asked. "Show me."

  The dog was much happier, now that a friendly human had shown up and talked to her. She limped to beside a potting shed and stood over an inert form, lumpy and elongated. Quite obviously she was counting on Richard coming over and dealing with whatever it was.

  Richard drew his gun and moved forward carefully.

  A dog. A half-dead dog.

  Make that nine-tenths dead.

  Knife wounds, mostly, from the looks of things. Or box cutters. Slashes, in any case. Nasty stuff. Vicious.

  Richard proceeded to argue with himself. If the attacker was still on the premises, it might be good to have backup. On the other hand, Hippo had said the dogs had been complaining for a long time. Not having bad guys silencing the poor mutts suggested a probable lack of bad guys. Further, guns generally trumped knives, and he had a gun. There was the further fact that he never, ever, wanted his wife near a knife-wielding maniac again. He'd nearly lost her that way once.

  He decided to go into the house without further dillydallying, largely so that Emma wouldn't get restless and come over to help. Keeping close to what cover was available, he moved to the back door. The dog circled in agonized indecision before abandoning her fallen friend and reattaching herself to Richard.

  He tested the doorknob. The door was locked. He tried putting his weight to the door, in the hopes it wasn't fully on the latch. No help. He got ready to try to bust the door open with a well-placed karate kick. His escort dog looked at him like he was nuts, and walked through the dog door. When he didn't follow immediately, she bark
ed, and stuck her head through to check his progress.

  He got on his hands and knees. "I'm coming. I'm coming. And thank you for making it so obvious that someone is coming in behind you. Are you trying to get me killed or what?" he whispered. He gently pushed on the dog door, easing the dog back, pushing the door open enough he could get a peek inside.

  The dog barked, throwing encouragement into it, scrabbling backwards, tossing looks deep into the house. From somewhere forward in the house, the corgi keened again.

  Richard squeezed through the dog door, keeping his gun handy but not really feeling like he'd need it at this point.

  Still, better safe than sorry. He scurried across the room and flung his back to the wall. He waited, listening. He heard nothing but dog sounds. He peeked around the corner. He couldn't see anything from where he stood, so he moved cautiously through the house.

  The man's inert form lay on the floor in the front room. The corgi pathetically pawed the body.

  Richard reached for a wrist to check for a pulse, but drew back. The lower arms and wrists were slashed. Richard's mind flashed "Begging For His Life." He looked where he expected to find more damage, and found it, true to pattern. It was impossible not to think that Loomis's reaction to being attacked had been overwhelmingly defensive, leaning toward passive.

  Richard's martial arts instructor had vowed to lay ancient Oriental curses on the departed soul of anyone caught dead sporting evidence that he hadn't fought back once he knew he was in trouble. "I don't care if it's your best friend, a midget, a beautiful woman, a ten-year-old psychopath, or your neighbor's grandmother, if they start a fight, you finish it," the man had told them. Yelled at them, actually. Richard had thought the man had overplayed the point, but looking at Loomis, he understood his instructor's obsession. There was a sense of personal betrayal, seeing something like this. It was all he could do not to scream at the body, "Why didn't you fight back instead of cower, damn you!" Being a decent man, he felt ashamed of himself for even thinking it. Anyone could be taken by surprise. Anyone's mind could misfire due to pain or fear. Anyone's knees could go wobbly at the wrong moment, or arm muscles could tie in knots trying to do unprecedented things. This is not to mention that baseless hopes had undone some of the best men in history, rendering them wishful or bargaining, when there was no room or time or reason for it. For that matter, Richard had known men to be paralyzed by a sense of honor that drew sharp, severe boundaries even in life and death situations. For that matter, he'd been there himself a time or two, risking death rather than doing something he knew was wrong.

  The front door burst open. Richard wheeled to draw aim on whoever was roaring in.

  "You're under arrest," the terrified cop said as he tossed his hands in the air and dug his heels into the carpet (quite without meaning to, of course).

  "Oh, sorry," Richard said, pointing his gun in the air.

  "Put the gun down, sir," the cop said, once he got his voice back and had resumed an authoritative stance. "Put it on the floor, and step back."

  "Soon," Richard said. "Soon. Give me a couple seconds to convince myself that you're really a policeman. Right now I could use some help. I just came over to see why the dogs were howling, and this is what I found. Pardon me if my nerves are jumpy. Murder does that to a person."

  The cop seemed to take special heed of what he was saying, and Richard realized belatedly that a person could, if so inclined, almost twist 'Pardon me if my nerves are jumpy. Murder does that to a person.' into a sideways sort of confession. It would take some major twisting, but people's minds upon finding dead bodies and looking down the barrel of a gun did tend to be a little warped. The cop was undoubtedly human, and could be excused for being confused at the moment.

  Richard took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to steady himself. He pulled the clip, cleared the chamber, and handed across his beloved 1911 Colt .45. The cop's hand was only shaking slightly as he took possession, which Richard considered good under the circumstances, and very good given that there probably hadn't been murder done in the policeman's jurisdiction for two or three generations.

  "Now, then. Who are you?" the cop said.

  "Richard Hugh, secret services, and not to tell you your business, but I think Mr. Loomis is dead but I'm no expert. I'll stand here quietly, or lay on the floor with my hands outstretched, whichever makes you more comfortable, but I think you'd best tend to the fallen first, get an ambulance and forensics experts, and secure the scene."

  "Secret services?" The cop's head shifted sideways, showing his disbelief. His eyes stole involuntarily to the weapon Richard had just relinquished: World War One firepower, authentically antique and not a modern reissue. Such weaponry apparently didn't jibe with the policeman's idea of the modern secret services. (If only he knew what concessions spy chiefs had to make to their agents' quirks…)

  "I'll help," Richard said, changing tack. "Just tell me what you'd like for me to do."

  "Oh, you're a cute one, you are," the cop said.

  "What's going on?" a man said from the doorway.

  The cop jumped six inches, Richard three.

  The mailman stared at the cop, then looked around the room to get his bearings. At the sight of Loomis, he froze for a second, then pulled a phone out of a holster on his belt. "Emergency," he said. "We've got an emergency at Deerfield Cottage. Send an ambulance and the police."

  "I'm already here, Ian," the cop said.

  "Right. Charlotte, look, Briggs is already here. I meant to send him backup if you have any. Mr. Loomis looks dead and there's a stranger here. Marti looks hurt, too. Call the vet will you? When you get a chance?"

  "This other dog's hurt also," Richard put in, nodding at the larger dog, standing by in a corner, waiting for the humans to fix things. "There's a third dog out by the potting shed, pretty slashed up. It was nearly dead when I was back there."

  "Right," the mailman said. "Charlotte, we definitely need Dr. Ashton." Ringing off, he looked Richard in the eye. "Who are you?"

  "Richard Hugh." He handed his credentials across.

  "Right, then," the mailman said, after giving the credentials a hard look and handing them back. "What do we do now?"

  "Secure the scene. The whole property. I suspect the dog out back dragged itself out there, but there's a chance the assailant was out there. The more we can keep pristine for the forensics team, the better at this point. I doubt there's anything we can do for Loomis, but the ambulance crew can finalize that diagnosis."

  "Not this ambulance team," the mailman said. "First responders only, minimal training, and all of them teens at the moment."

  Richard stared.

  "We're all volunteer out here, and right now it's hard getting volunteers. We might not have anybody if it hadn't caught on as some sort of fad for nearly-adults," the mailman explained.

  Richard looked at the body and the crime scene. "I'd hate for kids to see-"

  "Too late now," the mailman said, cocking his ear toward the muted sounds of a siren rolling its way through the landscape. "Sounds like they had it down to the petrol station. That puts them ready to roll, and not far off. They'll be here within one minute, I'll bet."

  The mailman seemed to be daring the stranger to find something wrong with his community or its emergency services, and Richard didn't want to play that game, so he stood still and projected unconceited confidence as the siren drew nearer. Projecting confidence was one of his fortes. Besides, sometimes if you faked it long enough it turned into the real thing.

  The ambulance skidded to a stop in front of the house. Two boys who looked barely ready to shave piled out and ran down the walk.

  Richard stepped into the doorway and held up a hand. "Let me fill you in. It's a crime scene and we need to be careful." He handed over his credentials. "Mr. Loomis did some work for us, and he's been murdered, or I think he's dead. Quite frankly, you'd know more about that particular call than I would. Not my line. I'm stepping aside now, but don't move him m
ore than necessary to determine if he's dead. If he's not dead, go all out, and evidence be damned. If he is dead, back off and leave him to the forensics team."

  "Right," the lead boy said. To his credit, he only looked a little green.

  Richard pried his credentials loose from the boy's grip and stepped aside. The two boys, very official and solemn now, knelt beside the body.

  "No pulse, cold, eyes and eyelids non-responsive, and already starting to stiffen. That's pretty sure to me," the lead boy said, after doing the necessary checking. He looked at his ashen-faced associate, who nodded, but made no move to check for himself.

  "Right, then, we all seem to be in agreement," Richard said. "I'd tell you to sit down, but we don't know if the killer used any of the chairs before the attack. Out to your ambulance and don't drive until you're ready. Be careful with the gate, especially the latch, if you would. I should have thought to warn you about the latch before you came in, but let's be careful on the way out. It's funny how murderers are more likely to leave good prints during their flight than during their arrival. Nerves go flooey on them, you know."

  "Yes, sir," the boys said. They headed for the door.

  "One more thing," Richard said.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "It's always harder when you know the victim," Richard said. "And even when you don't, coming on a murder's always worse than an accident, especially when the deed's been done a while. Adrenalin has nowhere useful to go, at least not right away, and there's more to be angry at. You'll be all right. It never gets easy, but you'll be all right. Off with you now."

  The boys staggered out, barely remembering about the gate latch. Once they remembered, they argued loudly over the best way to be careful about the gate and the latch.

  "Poor devils," the mailman said.

  "Nah," Richard said. "If they're the sort that can handle running an ambulance, by tomorrow or the day after they'll be heroes to their friends and all puffed up about how well they handled this." He grinned and rolled his eyes.

  "Not to mention that they can brag that they met a secret services man," the mailman said. Richard wasn't any too happy about that observation, but wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't make it worse.

  "Do I ever get a word in edgewise around here?" the cop sputtered.

  "Oh, by all means," Richard said. "Jump right in."

  "You're under arrest, you know, and don't you forget it."

  "Uh, Briggs, if he's the suspect, why's he running the investigation? This doesn't make any sense, if you want to know the truth," the mailman said.

  "No, I don't want to know 'the truth.' Shut up, Ian," the cop said.

  "Ooh, temper, temper," Richard clucked. "As I started to explain, I was over at the neighbor's, and heard the dogs, and came over to have a look-see. They sounded pretty distraught."

  "Prove it," the cop said.

  "As a matter of fact, this being an innocent-until-proven-guilty sort of country-"

  "Prove it, I said," the cop said, pulling handcuffs. "And tell it to the jury."

  Richard pointed to his pant legs. "Still wet, with burrs stuck on. I'd hardly get so mussed in the house, now would I?"

  "And you'd hardly waltz in the front door to murder somebody, either," the cop said.

  "No, that's not true, Briggs," the mailman said. "Most murders are by relatives or acquaintances, and they usually don't ambush the victim. Well, they ambush them, in a manner of speaking, obviously, but usually after having got close some usual way."

  "And what makes you such an expert all of a sudden?" the cop asked.

  The mailman drew himself up to full height. "I watch the news and read true crime books, same as everybody," he said.

  "Actually, I can't stand true crime books and rarely watch television, but that's okay," Richard said. "When I read, it's to escape, you know. No busman's holiday stuff if I can help it," he added, so as to not sound judgmental of the other man's reading.

  "I see your point," the mailman said.

  "Look, mister, are you going to let me put handcuffs on you or not? I looked in a window and saw you right over the body. What more do you want?"

  "Uh, well, let's see. The only weapon I have is a gun, and he wasn't killed with a gun, or it doesn't look like it. I was over a cool body, getting stiff. Generally you'd like to catch a murderer over fresh kill, you know. There are shreds of what looks like trouser material over there, and my trousers, as you can see, aren't torn. Soggy, soiled, disgraceful, but not torn." He shifted his gaze to Marti. "Good dog, if you're responsible for that." Marti wagged her tail, tentatively. He turned to the other dog. "Good dog, if it's you we should thank." She barked, happy to be addressed, delighted at Richard's praise. Richard shifted back to the cop. "There's tons of blood, yet I'm not blood-stained – quite a feat if I'm the killer. Three injured dogs, all of whom look like they put up quite a fight, yet these two like me, or at least are perfectly happy to have me here. Then there's-"

  "Enough all ready," the cop said, looking at the dogs.

  Richard took pity on him. "Look, I'm sorry. I've pulled a gun on you and of course you're upset with me. You'd hardly be human if you weren't. But I'm in the middle of a case here, and haven't time for this."

  This made the cop wary again. "Like we only arrest people when it's convenient for them? What do you take me for?"

  "A man who saw a nasty situation through a window, busted in a door, and found himself unexpectedly looking down the barrel of a gun held by someone who obviously has training and experience with a gun, that's what."

  Richard fidgeted. He needed to check in with his chief but didn't dare walk over there and have the cop come trailing after, only to catch Hippo in the act of practicing medicine without a license and Stolemaker trying to hide from traitors inside the department. For a wild, mad moment he wondered if allowing himself to be arrested might be the least bad of the available bad options.

  A siren approached, and stopped right outside. Richard looked out to see Percy's car with a portable flashing light and siren on the dash. Emma got out, looking official. She used a pen to open the gate latch and strode down the walk like she was there on business. She nodded solemnly to the mailman as she brushed past him and into the house. She took in the room with a professional, controlled sweep of the eyes. "Trouble all over today," she said to no one in particular, and sounding British. "Just what we need, two attacks at once." She sounded simultaneously resigned, composed, and stolid: the perfect picture of un-harried English officialdom in the field. She turned her full attention on Richard. "Are you about ready?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he said.

  "Are you in charge here?" Emma asked the cop.

  "Yes, ma'am. Briggs my name is, ma'am."

  "Is there anything more you need from us, Briggs? We're trying to head people off before there's more bloodshed, and we're pushed for both time and manpower at the moment. But we'll give you whatever we can, if you need it. Bad show, this."

  "I think we've got it," Briggs said.

  "We're off then, for now," Emma said.

  Richard waved her out the front door, staying close on her heels.

  He was dumbfounded to see a chap from the annoying internal review panel that had so pathetically questioned him earlier in the day, walking up the narrow pathway carrying a package. It was one of the young fellows, who likely shouldn't be sent out of the office yet. Too green by half. He looked as if he felt himself to be on important business. Curious, that.