Paralyzed, his blood like cold sludge in his veins, Gideon stood stupefied, mindlessly waiting. Now, in addition to the wild, swelling howl, there was a rapid, rustling patter, and with the new sound Gideon suddenly found he could move again. He bent, looking desperately for anything that would serve as a weapon, and picked up the weathered stub of a thick branch, as big around as a loaf of bread. Gripping the damp, heavy wood, he turned toward the awful sounds and moved in front of Julie, who stood as if petrified.
Remembering that he still held the flashlight in his other hand, he flicked it on, aiming at the gap in the trees. In the foreground the low-lying mist hung like a bed of cotton candy and reflected back the light. In the gap itself, nothing showed but blackness. The baying had stopped, but the pattering was much louder, and now a ragged panting could be heard. Gideon fought down the trembling of his hand and held the flashlight steady on the opening through which the thing must emerge.
"Here it comes," he said, through a painfully tight throat, meaning it as a comfort to her, a sign that he was alert and in command of himself. Actually, he was far from it; he was as teeth-chatteringly scared as he’d ever been, and impotently raging as well—there was no way to get Julie to safety; no tree to lift her into, no place for her to run….
The monstrous animal shot out of the foliage, brilliant in the hard glare of the flashlight, and bounded toward them with loping, dreamlike strides that tore the fog into whirling tatters and ate up the ground. The panting was horrible, and Gideon imagined he could already feel its hot breath. It really is like the Hound of the Baskervilles, he thought. All it needs is a glowing coat of phosphorus on its muzzle….
He kept the beam on the charging animal and got a firmer grip on the branch. It seemed to him that his muscles responded with the gluey inertia of nightmare, and that the dog would have him in shreds before he could mobilize himself. Still, he crouched and lifted his arms, dumbly ready to take the animal’s leap.
Julie suddenly came to life and showed more presence of mind. Bending quickly, she picked up a stone and hurled it. Astonishingly, it hit home. Gideon saw it leap into the light beam, thwack against the massive skull, and bounce off into darkness. The dog shrieked with pain and stopped abruptly, fifteen feet from them, growling deep within its chest. There was a smear of blood, black in the flashlight beam, on its forehead where the stone had struck. It seemed to know it was Julie who had thrown it, for its eyes, milkily luminous, were focused behind Gideon, on her. With a quick, smooth movement it tensed itself to spring. In the harsh glare, its muscles cut shadowed furrows in the loose, tawny pelt and slid over each other like plates of oiled steel.
Whatever sort of semi-trance Gideon had been in, it finally ended. As the dog launched itself at Julie, he threw himself at it, thrusting the branch before him like an épée. It caught the huge animal full in the chest, but it was Gideon who was knocked backward, his entire frame shuddering with the impact. The dog screamed and twisted in the air, and landed tumbling on its side, but was up the moment it hit the ground. And now it knew Gideon for its enemy. Snarling, with black lips pulled back along its teeth, it spun to face him. He flung the flashlight at it, catching it a glancing blow on the shoulder. The animal howled and came for him again, harder to see now in the moonlight.
Gideon thrust the thick branch at it again and stepped back, once more managing to deflect the hurtling body. Again, with unbelievable rapidity, it writhed to face him and sprang, fiercely snapping at the air—bites that could have taken off his entire hand and more. Somehow, he shoved it off to one side, this time with a forearm, but he smelled the stink of its breath, saw the dreadful teeth snap shut a few inches from his face, heard the agonized, strangled, clicking noises in its gullet.
He was shaking with strain. This animal, he thought with wonder, will eat me if it can. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie bending, searching for more rocks.
"Julie, run!" he managed to say as the dog came for him again, but she stood her ground and, sobbing, flung a handful of stones wildly at it.
This time, when it came, Gideon swung the branch like a club, aiming for the savage head. As if it were leaping for a Frisbee, it gyrated in midair and caught the wood between its jaws, wrenching Gideon to his knees as if he were a child. Gideon clung to the branch with both hands, but the massive neck muscles were too much; the branch was jerked from his grasp and tossed spinning to the grass.
The dog sprang immediately, bowling him over, so that he saw the moon beyond the tawny shoulders, and they rolled together in the grass, both of them snarling. Gideon felt the dog’s back legs digging convulsively for his vitals. He twisted, feeling the claws rip open a hip pocket, unsure whether or not his hip had been laid open as well. The animal’s snout, very near his own, was all teeth, snapping and clacking, and ropy threads of hot saliva dripped onto his cheeks. Punching, kicking with his knees, and trying to keep his body away from the dog's flailing claws, Gideon jerked his head away, and the dog strained after him, frantically seeking the man’s soft throat. Gideon managed to get hold of the slimy snout and tried to clamp the jaws closed and force the huge head backward, but the animal twitched and writhed, and he wound up underneath it on his back. He punched the throat, and the dog coughed hoarsely but pressed in. Gideon’s head was rammed sharply against a rock. The pain was blinding, bringing with it a rolling billow of nausea. He still held the fierce jaws closed, but his fingers slipped in the saliva, and he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.
Again his head was smashed against the rock, and this time he saw stars and began to tip and fall slowly over a precipice into nothing. That’s it, he thought hazily, I can’t fight this thing off. I’m going to die. He was dimly aware of Julie above him, hammering on the dog’s back. "Get off, get off," she seemed to be saying.
"Julie," he said, or thought he said, "will you please get the hell out of here?" He was pleased to be speaking so calmly under the circumstances. If, that is, he was really speaking. It was hard to say.
"Bad show, Bowser!" she responded in a crisp English accent. "Get down, damn it! Down! Bad show!"
While he puzzled over this odd turn of events, he felt the great weight of the beast lift from his chest. He inhaled gratefully, closed his eyes, and continued to float peacefully down into the void.
NINETEEN
"I can’t tell you how sorry I am," Colonel Conley said. "Of course you’ll let me reimburse you for your clothing, and if there are any medical costs—"
"No," Gideon said. "Thanks, but I’m fine." This was a notable overstatement; his head pounded, his stomach churned, his multitude of miraculously minor scratches and abrasions were beginning to sting, his clothes were ruined, and most of his joints felt as if they’d been pulled on by teams of stallions. But, all things considered, he was glad to be alive.
He and Julie were at the colonel’s kitchen table. His wounds had been ministered to by Julie, with the colonel’s supplies and competent assistance, and they had before them three cups of ferociously strong black tea sweetened almost to syrup. Bowser was somewhere behind the house, locked into a pen within a pen—and, Gideon hoped, bound with chain, bolt, and iron stake sunk into concrete.
"I simply can’t understand it," Colonel Conley said, and pulled angrily at his short mustache. "Simply can’t."
"Colonel," Gideon said without animosity, "you’re going to have to do something about Bowser. If it had been a child he’d come after…"
"A child?" the colonel repeated. "Oh, no, I don’t think so; certainly not. Here, I want to show you something." He left the room muttering, "Certainly not a child."
Julie moved closer to Gideon and put her hand on his arm. She was still wan and tousled, and her black eyes were very bright. "You’re really all right?"
"Sure, honestly. You are, aren’t you?"
"Uh-huh." She smiled tentatively. "You were…magnificent."
He laughed. "Told you I had him in the palm of my hand." But he had to close his eyes to fight do
wn a wave of giddiness.
Conley returned and put two objects on the table. "That," he said, "is the chain that holds the back gate shut. It’s been cut through, as you can see. And that," he said, indicating the second object, "is a canvas shoe—yours, I should guess."
Gideon picked it up. "Where did you find it?"
"It was in the bushes, not far from the stile. I was lucky to see it. Obviously, someone used it to set the Beast on your scent."
"Is that possible? Can you just walk up to a dog and let it sniff someone’s shoes—and then it goes tearing off after him?"
"A hound like Bowser? Most certainly. And with the ground as damp as it is, the dog wouldn’t have a problem in the world. They do better in moist weather, you know."
"Someone wanted Bowser to kill you?" Julie asked incredulously. "But who? Why would anyone want you dead?"
The answers couldn’t have been more obvious. Gideon stood up—a little too suddenly; his vision blurred and a hundred places in his body twinged and burned, as if he’d been rubbed all over with heavy-grade sandpaper. But he was anxious to get going. There were still plenty of things he didn’t understand, but now he had a personal score to settle and he wanted to get on with it.
"Let’s go," he said to Julie. "It’s after eight."
Conley looked startled. "But …you can’t simply go like that….You must let me—here, let me write down my name and address." He pulled over a notepad that had been near the telephone and began scribbling. "I absolutely insist that all bills be sent to me. And—here—I’ll write a little statement that wholly accepts responsibility: "I, Grahame Baldwin Conley…"
Gideon stood there, swaying slightly, his mind still hazy.
"No, that isn’t necessary…." Standing up so suddenly had been a mistake. He was dizzy as well as muddled. He steadied himself with both hands on the table and made himself focus on the crisp, white pad of paper against the purple check of the plastic tablecloth. Conley’s square hand moved purposefully over it.
"You write like a left-hander," Gideon murmured.
"What?" Conley looked up. "I am left-handed. Look here, are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to stay the night? I can have a bed made up in no time."
Gideon shook his head, smiling. The motion actually seemed to clear his thoughts. "No, thanks." He gestured at Conley’s writing hand. "I just seem to have a one-track mind."
"Oh, I see," the colonel said, clearly failing to see.
"And, please, don’t worry about any bills. It wasn’t your fault."
"I’m afraid I must insist. And shouldn’t we call the police?"
"I’ll take care of it. Thanks for getting there when you did. You saved our lives."
"Well, of course, old fellow. I’m awfully sorry about all this. I hope you’re not too terribly angry."
"Not at you, Colonel." And then, as a rumbling woof from in back shook the house, "And not at Bowser, either."
Not really.
HE strode so quickly down Barr’s Lane that Julie had to
trot to keep up.
"Who wanted to kill you?" she demanded.
"Leon Hillyer. That bastard."
It had to be. And how unbelievably stupid he, Gideon, had been. He’d trustingly promised to tell no one about the skull before eight o’clock—giving Leon a full five hours to figure out a way of getting rid of him. Then, to make it easier, he’d announced in front of all of them that he would be in the dark and deserted Dyne Meadow at precisely 7:04 p.m. And now, with 8:00 come and gone, Leon was no doubt sitting in the Tudor Room, munching Danish pastries, wondering with the rest of them where in the world Gideon Oliver was, and looking as befuddled as anyone else about the reason for the meeting.
Julie jumped in front of him and placed her palms against his chest.
"Whoa."
Impatiently, he stopped.
"Just take it easy," she said. "I’ve never seen you like this. You’re really mad, aren’t you?"
"Goddam right I am!"
Goddam right he was. That vicious, fast-talking kid had not only tried to kill him; he’d coolly decided to sacrifice Julie, too, no doubt on the off-chance that Gideon had told her about his tawdry little fraud. And, my God, how close it had been!
"Wait a minute," Julie said, "I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly. I want to ask you some questions."
"Later. Come on, Julie, get out of my way."
She paid no attention. "First of all, are you saying that Leon not only tried to kill you but murdered Randy, too?"
"Probably. I don’t know. I don’t have it all figured out yet."
"Then what was that bit about Colonel Conley being left-handed? I thought you suspected him."
"Conley?" Gideon said, surprised. "Conley? Not at all. My mind was wandering, that’s all. I’ve got left-handers on the brain. Today I looked in a mirror and accused Leon of being left-handed. I was wrong about that, but I was sure right about—"
And all at once, everything fitted; everything clicked sharply into place, as with the final twist of a Rubik’s Cube. "He is left-handed," Gideon said, bedazzled, not sure if he was marveling at his own brilliance or at his own obtuseness.
"Leon? But you told me he was right-handed."
"He is right-handed."
Julie peered worriedly up into his face, trying to see his eyes in the dark. "Gideon, darling, don’t get angry, but I think you’re still a little—"
"I’m not a little anything. What I’m trying to say is that Leon used to be left-handed, probably as a kid, but was made to switch over. Parents do that, you know that. Only it wasn’t complete—it hardly ever is. And so of course he might have swung a mallet with his left hand, particularly if he was excited."
"But how could you possibly know that?"
They began to walk again, more slowly. "Look," Gideon said, "you know the way a left-hander typically holds his hand when he writes?"
"Sort of scrunched over, you mean?"
"Right, with the hand curled around like a hook; inverted writing posture, it’s called. It’s the way Conley was writing."
"Yes, I know," Julie said with transparent confusion. "But not all left-handers write that way. My sister Karen doesn’t."
"That’s true, but most of them do, possibly because of the way they’re taught to slant their paper in school. But almost no right-hander does."
"I believe you, but I think something is escaping me."
Gideon stopped as they came from the mud and gravel of Barr’s Lane to the concrete sidewalk of The Street, Charmouth’s concisely named main thoroughfare.
"Julie," he said, "when I looked at Leon in the mirror today and thought he was writing left-handed, it wasn’t the mirror-image that made me think so; it was the way he was writing—hook-handed. But with his right hand."
"So…" Julie frowned, seeing what he was driving at. "You think he learned to write that way as a child—a left-handed child—and then just kept the same position when he was made to change, because that was what he was used to?"
"That’s exactly what I think."
"That makes sense, but isn’t it kind of…well, tenuous?"
"But there’s more. There are some problem characteristics that follow when left-handed kids are forced to change hands, at least some of the time, according to a lot of psychologists. And Leon Hillyer’s got ’em." Purposefully, he started across the quiet street toward the Queen’s Armes.
"Well, what are they?"
"He stutters when he’s nervous, and he has a tendency to transpose numbers. He’d written a ‘twenty-one’ on that find card I told you about, then had to cross it out and put in a ‘twelve.’ He laughed it off and told me he does it all the time. Damn! And I never figured it out!"
In the dark doorway of the Queen’s Armes, she stopped
him again, standing in his way. "Gideon, you never stop astonishing me. How do you know such things? Transposed numbers, inverted writing posture—after all, you’re an anthropologist, not a—"
"Julie, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?"
Even in the darkness he saw her widen her eyes innocently. "Doing?"
"You’re temporizing. You’re trying to keep me out of there because you think I’m mad enough to do something dumb."
"Well, aren’t you? Gideon, if you really think he’s a murderer, what you ought to do is tell the police about it."
"I’ll tell the police later. First, I want to talk to him. Now, are you going to get out of my way?"
It seemed to Gideon that he said it with convincing menace, but she didn’t move, except to fold her arms. "Will you stop being so ridiculously macho?" she said. "What are you going to do, for God’s sake, beat him up or something?"
"No, I’m not going to beat him up," he said angrily, but Julie’s arms-crossed, feet-planted, no-nonsense barring of the door made him laugh and then relax. "I don’t know what I’m going to do," he said sheepishly. "I guess I haven’t thought it out."
He laughed again and put his arms around her. "Hey, you were pretty magnificent yourself out there in the meadow."
Headlights suddenly loomed, flooding the entryway with light, and they jumped apart like a couple of kids caught necking. A dark car pulled up to the curb, the light blinked out, and a bulky form slowly emerged.
"Well now," Inspector Bagshawe boomed softly, "no need to look so guilty. I don’t suppose that’s the first time this old doorway’s seen a bit of slap-and-tickle. Mrs. Oliver, I presume? No offense, ma’am."
"Yes, this is my wife," Gideon said, "happily for us all. Julie, this is Inspector Bagshawe."
Bagshawe murmured something and lifted his hat, the first time in a long while that Gideon had seen a man do that. In his other hand he had a large manila envelope. This he handed to Gideon.
"I’ve brought you your photographs. Twenty-four in all; the undeveloped film in Randy Alexander’s camera. Much good may they do you."
"Inspector," Julie said, "there’s something we need to tell you." She glanced nervously at Gideon, who didn’t object; of course she was right.
Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 03 - Murder In The Queen's Armes Page 19