His voice trailed off and he sat there stiffly, with his big gnarled hands clenched in his lap.
"Why, Mr. Weaver? You said he was the one, that you accused him—accused him of what?"
He didn't seem to hear me. He said, "After I come to my senses, I couldn't breathe. Thought I was having a heart attack. God, it was hot in there . . . hot as hell. I opened the alley door to get some air and I guess I must have left it unlocked. I never did that on purpose. Only the story about the argument."
"Why did you kill Nick Damiano?"
No answer for a few seconds; I thought he still wasn't listening and I was about to ask the question again. But then he said, "My Bible's over on the desk. Look inside the front cover."
The Bible was a well-used Gideon and inside the front cover was a yellowed newspaper clipping. I opened the clipping. It was from the Chicago Sun-Times, dated June 23, 1957—a news story, with an accompanying photograph, that bore the headline: FLOWER SHOP BOMBER IDENTIFIED.
I took it back to the bed and sat again to read it. It said that the person responsible for a homemade bomb that had exploded in a crowded florist shop the day before, killing seven people, was a handyman named Nicholas Donato. One of the dead was Marjorie Donato, the bomber's estranged wife and an employee of the shop; another victim was the shop's owner, Arthur Cullen, with whom Mrs. Donato had apparently been having an affair. According to friends, Nicholas Donato had been despondent over the estrangement and the affair, had taken to drinking heavily, and had threatened "to do something drastic" if his wife didn't move back in with him. He had disappeared the morning of the explosion and had not been apprehended at the time the news story was printed. His evident intention had been to blow up only his wife and her lover; but Mrs. Donato had opened the package containing the bomb immediately after it was brought by messenger, in the presence of several customers, and the result had been mass slaughter.
I studied the photograph of Nicholas Donato. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, of not very good quality, and I had to look at it closely for a time to see the likeness. But it was there: Nicholas Donato and Nick Damiano had been the same man.
Weaver had been watching me read. When I looked up from the clipping he said, "They never caught him. Traced him to Indianapolis, but then he disappeared for good. All these years, twentyseven years, and I come across him here in San Francisco. Coincidence. Or maybe it was supposed to happen that way. The hand of the Lord guides us all, and we don't always understand the whys and wherefores."
"Mr. Weaver, what did that bombing massacre have to do with you?"
"One of the people he blew up was my youngest daughter. Twenty-two that year. Went to that flower shop to pick out an arrangement for her wedding. I saw her after it happened, I saw what his bomb did to her . . ."
He broke off again; his strong voice trembled a little now. But his eyes were dry. He'd cried once, he'd cried many times, but that had been long ago. There were no tears left any more.
I got slowly to my feet. The heat and the sweetish tobacco scent were making me feel sick to my stomach. And the grayness, the aura of age and hopelessness and tragedy were like an oppressive weight.
I said, "I'll be going now."
"Going?" he said. "Telephone's right over there."
"I won't be calling the police, Mr. Weaver. From here or from anywhere else."
"What's that? But . . . you know I killed him . . ."
"I don't know anything," I said. "I don't even remember coming here today."
I left him quickly, before he could say anything else, and went downstairs and out to O'Farrell Street. Wind-hurled rain buffeted me, icy and stinging, but the feel and smell of it was a relief. I pulled up the collar on my overcoat and hurried next door.
Upstairs in the office I took Iry Feinberg's two hundred dollars out of the lock box in the desk and slipped the envelope into my coat pocket. He wouldn't like getting it back; he wouldn't like my calling it quits on the investigation, just as the police had done. But that didn't matter. Let the dead lie still, and the dying find what little peace they had left. The judgment was out of human hands anyway.
I tried not to think about Nick Damiano anymore, but it was too soon and I couldn't blot him out yet. Harmless old Nick, the happy whack. Jesus Christ. Seven people—he had slaughtered seven people that day in 1957. And for what? For a lost woman; for a lost love. No wonder he'd gone batty and developed an obsession for skeletons. He had lived with them, seven of them, all those years, heard them clattering and clacking all those thousands of nights. And now, pretty soon, he would be one himself.
Skeleton rattle your mouldy leg.
All men's lovers come to this.
SANCTUARY
A "Nameless Detective" Story
We were still twenty miles from Paradise when the skies opened up on us.
It was 7:30 on a Sunday evening in late October and Kerry and I had spent the afternoon driving around in the Sierra Nevada up near Lake Almanor. The sun had been shining when we'd started out from Paradise just before noon, but the sky had begun to cloud up in mid-afternoon and the first rain had begun falling at half-past four. We'd have started back before that, and been in Paradise long since—literally and maybe figuratively, too—except for the tire that had got punctured by some litterbug's broken beer bottle and the damned spare that had turned up just as flat. We'd had to wait for a good Samaritan to come along and take us into Aimanor, and then to ride back out with a Triple-A truck and a new tire. The whole episode had cost us well over two hours and neither of us was in a very good mood. So then the rain had to change from a drizzle to a deluge so heavy the windshield wipers couldn't get rid of the water fast enough. Straining to see, I had to slow to less than twenty-five or run the risk of losing the car on one of the sharp turns in the two-lane mountain road.
Kerry said, "Oh God, just what we need. Can you see? It's just a blur out there to me."
"Ditto."
"Maybe we'd better pull over until it lets up."
"No place to go."
"The first place we come to, then."
"Don't worry," I said, "we'll be all right."
"Some Sunday," she said irritably. "Some terrific weekend."
I didn't say anything. My temper was as short as hers and I did not want us to start bickering; the road and that silver curtain of rain took all my attention. But the truth was, it hadn't been such a bad weekend until this afternoon. I'd had half a day's worth of wrap-up business in Chico on Friday, on a civil case I was working for a San Francisco attorney, and I had taken Kerry along because my job fascinated her—she fancied herself as having latent detective abilities—and because the timing was right for a three-day mini-vacation after my business was finished. That night we'd driven up to Paradise, a resort and retirement community in the Sierra foothills a dozen miles northeast of Chico, and taken a room in a first-class motel. The weather was good, with no early snow on the ground; it was the off-season so there weren't many other tourists in the area; and we'd been having a pretty nice time eating out, exploring, and making love.
Now we were paying for it.
The rain seemed to be coming down harder, if that were possible. It was like trying to drive under and through a seemingly endless waterfall. Close on both sides of the road, pine forest loomed black and indistinct; there wasn't even a turnout where I could pull off. I let our speed slacken to under twenty, little more than a crawl. At least there wasn't any other traffic: we hadn't seen another car traveling in either direction in the past five minutes.
The night was pitch black except for the shimmer of our headlights against the rain. Or it was until we came around another curve. Kerry said, "Up ahead, look! It's some kind of roadside business place."
Through the downpour I could make out the reds and blues of a neon sign, the squat shape of a single log-and-shake-roofed building set back at the edge of a narrow clearing. There were lights in one of the front windows, and more neon that materialized as beer adverti
sements. The big sign on the roof said liquidly: Kern Woodland Tavern and Cafe.
I eased the car off the highway, onto a deserted gravel parking area that fronted the building. There was nothing behind the place except more trees and an empty access road that vanished in among them. Directly in front were a pair of gas pumps: I stopped the car between them and the entrance to the tavern half, the part that was lighted. The other half, the cafe, had a Closed sign in its darkened window.
"The bar's open, at least," Kerry said. "Why don't we go in? I can use something hot to drink."
"Might as well. It's better than sitting here."
We ran to the tavern entrance, a distance of maybe ten feet; but we were both half-drenched by the time we pushed inside. Some hard rain, the kind you only get in the mountains and that might last anywhere from three minutes to thirty.
The tavern was one of those rustic country types, full of roughhewn furniture and deer heads; this one also had a big American flag stretched out across the wall that bisected the building, one made before Alaska and Hawaii were admitted to the Union because it only had forty-eight stars. A three-lop, fire blazed hotly in a native-stone fireplace. Near the window was a musicians' dais, empty now, and a scattering of maybe a dozen tables. Opposite was the bar, rough-hewn like the furnishings; on the wall behind it were a lot of little burnt-wood plaques that had dumb sayings on them like If You Don't Ask Us for Credit, We Won't Double the Price of Your Drinks.
There were only two people in the place, both of them men. One, a middle-aged guy wearing a plaid shirt and a tight-fitting woolen hunter's hat, was passed out at one of the tables, his head cradled in both arms. The other man was upright and conscious, standing at the near end of the bar, on the customer side of it. He was a few years older than the drunk, short and wiry and pasty-faced; dressed in shirt and chinos and a loose-fitting barman's apron.
He came forward a few paces, hands on his hips, as Kerry and I entered and I shut the door against the force of the storm. "Something I can do for you folks?"
"Lord, yes," Kerry said. "We need a drink. Another few minutes and we'd have drowned out there."
"You visitors in these parts?"
"Yes. We're staying in Paradise."
"Bad night to be out driving," the barman said. "Fact is, I was just about to close up and head home. Not many customers on a night like this."
"Close up? You're not going to send us back out in that?"Well . . .
"We won't stay long," I said. "Just until the rain lets up enough so I can see where I'm driving."
"We could wait in the car," Kerry said, "but the heater's not working." Which was the kind of sneaky lie they teach you in the advertising business; the heater was working fine. "It's nice and warm in here."
The barman shrugged and said without much enthusiasm, "Guess it'll be all right. Supper'll wait a few more minutes."
Kerry smiled at him and went over to the fire. He moved to the door and locked it, just in case some other damn fools showed up out of the storm. And I unbuttoned my coat, opened it up like a flasher to the room's warmth.
At the fire Kerry took off the wet paisley scarf she was wearing and fluffed out her thick auburn hair. The firelight made it shine like burnished copper. "I'll have a toddy," she said to the barman.
"Lady?"
"A hot toddy. A strong one."
"Oh. Sure."
I said, "Just a beer for me. Miller Lite."
The wiry guy moved around behind the plank. Outside, the rain was still hammering down with a vengeance; it sounded like a load of pebbles being dumped relentlessly on the tavern's roof. You could hear the wind skirling around in the eaves and rattling the windows, as if it, too, were seeking sanctuary from the storm.
"What was he celebrating?" Kerry asked the barman.
"What's that, lady?"
"Your other customer." She nodded at the drunk sprawled over the table.
"Oh, that's Clint Jackson. Good customer. He . . . well, he takes a little too much now and then. Got a drinking problem."
"I'll say he does. What are you going to do with him?"
"Do with him?"
"You're not going to let him sleep there all night, are you?"
"No, no. I'll get him sobered up. Wouldn't let him drive home in the shape he's in now."
"I should hope not."
"He can be a little mean when he's been drinking heavy," the barman said. That was directed at me because I had wandered over toward the drunk's table. The rasp of the man's breathing was audible from nearby, even with the pound of the rain. "Better just let him be."
"I won't disturb him, don't worry."
I turned over to the bar and sat on one of the green-leatherette stools and watched the barman set up Kerry's hot toddy and my beer. He asked me as he worked, "Where you folks from?"
"San Francisco."
"Long time since I been there. Fifteen years."
"It's changed. You wouldn't recognize parts of it."
"I guess not."
"You own this tavern, Mr.—?"
"Kern's my name, Sam Kern. Sure, I own it."
"Nice place. Had it long?"
"Twenty years."
"You live nearby, do you?"
"Not far. House back in the woods a ways."
"Must be peaceful, out here in the middle of nowhere."
"Sure," he said. "The wife and I like it fine. Plenty of business in the summer, plenty of time to loaf in the winter."
"You don't stay open during the winter?"
"Nope. Close down the end of this month."
Kerry came over from the fireplace, sat down next to me, and took a sip of her hot toddy. And made a face and said, "Ugh. Rum."
"Something wrong, lady?"
"You made it with rum instead of bourbon. I hate rum."
"I did? Must've picked up the wrong bottle. Sorry, I'll mix you up another one."
He did that. When he brought the drink I laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He looked at it and shook his head. "Afraid I can't change that, mister," he said. "Already closed up my register and put every dime in the safe. You wouldn't have anything smaller, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"I've got some singles," Kerry said. "How much is it?"
"Three dollars."
She paid him out of her purse. He rang up the sale and put the singles in the empty cash drawer and shut it again. Pretty soon he moved down to the other end of the bar and began using a bar towel on some glasses.
A couple of minutes passed in silence, except for the noise of the rain on the roof. I glanced over at the drunk. He still had his head buried in his arms; he hadn't moved since we'd come in.
The steady drum of the rain began to diminish finally, and the wind quit howling and rattling the window panes. The wiry guy looked over at the front window, at the wet night beyond. "Letting up," he said. "You folks should be all right on the road now."
I finished the beer in my glass. "Drink up," I said to Kerry. "We'd better get moving."
"What if it's just a momentary lull?"
"I don't think it is. Come on, Mr. Kern wants to close up and go have his supper."
"All right."
She drank the last of her toddy, and when she was on her feet I took her arm and steered her to the door. The wiry guy came out from behind the plank and followed us, so he could lock the door again after we were gone. I let Kerry flip the lock over; as she did I half-turned back toward him.
He said, "Good night, folks, stop in again—" and that was when I hit him.
It was a sucker punch and he was wide open to it; the blow caught him just under the left eye, spun him and knocked him off his feet, and sent him skidding on his backside toward the bar. Kerry let out a startled yell that got lost in the clatter of the guy hitting the bar stools; one of them fell over on top of him. He lay crumpled and unmoving against the brass rail, with the stool's cushion hiding part of his face.
Kerry said, "For God's sake, what did you d
o that for?" in horrified tones. "Have you lost your mind?"
I didn't answer her. Instead I went to where the guy lay and knelt down and got the gun out from where it was tucked inside his pants, under the apron. It was a .357 Magnum—a hell of a piece of artillery. Behind me, Kerry gasped when she saw it. I put it into the pocket of my coat without looking at her and felt the artery in the guy's neck to make sure he was still alive: I'd hit him pretty hard, hard enough to numb the first three fingers on my right hand. But he was all right, if you didn't count the blood leaking out of his nose, the bruise that was already forming on his cheek, and the fact that he was out cold.
Straightening again, flexing my sore hand, I crossed to where the drunk was draped over the table. Only he wasn't a drunk; when I took the hunter's hat off I could see the lump on the back of his head, the coagulating blood that matted his hair. I felt his neck the way I had the other guy's: his pulse was shallow but regular. But he was in worse shape than the wiry guy—the way that head wound looked, he had at least a concussion. He needed a doctor's attention, and soon.
Kerry was standing a few feet away gawping at me. I said to her, "Get on the phone, call the Highway Patrol. Tell them we need an ambulance. Tell them to hurry."
"I don't understand, what's going on—?"
"This man is the real Sam Kern, or at least somebody who works here," I said. "The one I hit is an impostor—probably either an escaped convict or a recent parolee. Tell the Highway Patrol that, too."
"God," she said, but she didn't argue; she went straight to the phone behind the bar.
I took another look at the wiry guy. He hadn't moved an inch, and the way he was breathing satisfied me he was going to be out for some time. In the pocket of his chinos I found a wallet full of ID that identified it as Sam Kern's; but the photograph on the driver's license was that of the wounded man at the table.
Graveyard Plots Page 24