by Damon Knight
"That's right."
Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and !eft the room.
"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."
"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "
"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."
"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."
"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone with you, he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car, but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation, even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he didn't know how wrong.
The FBI office in Portland put together a complete set of Gene Anderson's fingerprints except for the left little finger, and these prints were duly entered in their files together with a photograph of the boy furnished by Chief Cooley.
Beach went out to talk to Alma Munk when she had had a day or two to pull herself together. He asked her where Jerry's revolver was, and she said she didn't know. Beach sent the serial number of the gun to the manufacturer, and eventually learned that it had been sold in 1939 to a sporting goods store in Laramie. Beach knew there was no point in trying to trace it through the store's records; the gun had probably had three or four owners since then.
The "Gazette" ran an unprecedented two-column front page story about the "Tree House Murder"; reporters from the Portland and Salem papers came out, and there was even a photographer from "Time," but his pictures never appeared in the magazine. Souvenir hunters climbed the tree and pulled off boards to take home. A psychic in Corvallis claimed to have seen in a vision that Gene Anderson was living in a mountain cabin, "in a Western state, near running water."
John and Mildred Anderson drove down from Chehalis as soon as they heard. They talked to Sheriff Beach, and he showed them the books, games, and papers he had taken from the tree house. There were letters from correspondents in Switzerland, France, and Italy. "How did he ever get to writing all those people?" Donald Anderson asked.
"Pen pals. They advertise in magazines for kids. I've written letters to all those addresses, asking them to let us know if they hear from Gene, but I'd guess he's too smart for that." There was also a letter to his parents, never mailed.
"He was afraid to let us know where he was because Tom Cooley might find out and kill him," Mildred said. "Is that what happened? Do you think he's dead?"
Beach shook his head. "No telling. If he's alive, maybe he'll turn up."
"Can't you find him? -- can't the police -- ?"
"Mrs. Anderson, I know how you feel, but there's thousands of missing kids every year. Runaways, mostly; they don't want to be found, and there's just too many of them. If he happens to get picked up and fingerprinted, then they'll identify him."
Beach would not give them their boy's belongings, but he allowed Mrs. Anderson to copy down the names and addresses of his correspondents, and when she got home she wrote them urgent letters. Eventually she got three replies; the writers all said that they would certainly let her know if Gene wrote to them again. After that there was nothing.
* * *
The coroner's jury met in late November; they listened to Cooley's account of the incident, and Sheriff Beach's report, and they heard Dr. Swanson testify that the victim's injuries were consistent with death caused by a .38 revolver bullet, fired at short range, and passing through the left ventricle of the heart. The jury brought in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown.
Cooley went up to the district attorney's office afterward. "What the hell do they mean, persons unknown, it was the damn kid!"
The district attorney, Quentin Hoagland, gave him a cold look over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mr. Cooley, that was a responsible verdict in my opinion, and I'm a little surprised in fact, because this is a one-horse county. I'll tell you this, too, there are things about your testimony that I personally find hard to believe. I'm issuing a warrant for Gene Anderson as a material witness, in case you're interested. But there's something about this case that smells, and I don't mind telling you that if I had a little more evidence I'd be putting out two warrants, not one."
Early in March of the following year, word came back to Dog River that Mr. and Mrs. Donald Anderson had died in a house fire of undetermined origin in Chehalis, Washington. It had happened on a weekend when Chief Cooley had been away on one of his trips, and the rumor went around that the fire had been set by an arsonist.
Chief Cooley noticed during the following weeks that some people were avoiding him on the street; even old friends, when he sat down beside them at the Idle Hour or the Elk Tavern on route thirty-five, sometimes sat in embarrassed silence for a while and then got up to play a game of pinball or make a phone call.
Cooley was not surprised when Mayor Hilbert came to see him one Friday evening. "Hello, Gus. Come on in. You can throw those magazines off the chair."
Hilbert sat down. "Good Christ, Tom, this place is a damn pigsty."
"That what you came about?"
"No, Tom. It's about the Anderson business."
"Goddamn it, Gus, are you going to bring that up again? I was in Sacramento -- I showed you the motel receipt."
"I know it, Tom, but people talk anyway. And, you know, there's some bad feeling about what happened to Jerry. Well, maybe they're right or maybe they're wrong, but people are telling me things like that shouldn't happen in Dog River. You know what I'm telling you, Tom."
"Sure. You're not going to renew my contract."
"That's it. I'm sorry, Tom, that's the way it has to be."
"All right. Got anybody else in mind?"
Hilbert shifted uneasily in the chair. "Nothing definite. Walt Barrett has an uncle, a police sergeant in Portland, he's retiring next month -- he might be innarested."
"Contract isn't up till September, Gus."
"I know that. Nobody's rushing you, Tom."
"Want a beer?"
"No, thanks -- well, all right."
Cooley brought two bottles from the refrigerator and a glass for Hilbert. "Down the hatch," he said. "You know, Gus, I want to make this easy on you if I can."
Hilbert wiped the foam off his upper lip. "You do?"
"Sure, I do. Let's make a deal. Suppose I resign, whenever you say -- May first or whatever. I'll show the new guy the ropes, break him in and so forth. I been thinking of moving on, anyhow."
Hilbert looked thoughtful. "You said a deal, Tom?"
"All I want is two months' salary and a letter of recommendation. A good letter, Gus. And if anybody asks you for a reference, I want you to tell them I resigned to look for a better job, and I'm the best damn chief of police you ever saw."
"That letter you can have, no problem. About the two months, I'll have to talk to the town council."
"You do that. And, Gus -- "
"Yeah?"
"You tell them if I don't get it, I'm going to be the meanest son of a bitch north of Mexico."
Cooley sold his house, auctioned off the furniture, and put everything he had left into the trunk and back seat of the Buick. He closed his account at the bank, took a few hundred dollars in travelers' checks and cash, and got a cas
hier's check for the rest.
It was his belief now that the kid was alive, and he was still convinced that he had gone south. The only thing he had to go on, besides a hunch, was something Mrs. Anderson had said: "He likes to draw." Cooley got into the Buick early one morning in May and headed for Los Angeles. If he drew a blank there, it was his intention to work north again -- San Francisco, then up to Salem, then Portland, but he didn't think the kid would have stopped that close to home. He wouldn't feel safe until he was as far away as he could get without leaving the country. Los Angeles: that was where he'd find him.
Chapter Six
In his dreams, the boy was coming up out of deep water, fighting to reach the surface. When he got there, he felt the hard ground under him and a pain in his chest as if he had been clubbed with a baseball bat. It was worse when he tried to roll over, and when he finally managed to sit up, a pink froth dripped from his chin and spattered the legs of his pants. The pain now was a hard thin spear that went through him slantwise, starting under one arm and coming out over the shoulder blade on the other side.
He got to his feet, swayed, and saw the man lying half hidden by a clump of vine maple. He walked toward the man, not able to stop himself until he was standing right above him. The man's face was blue.
After the dream, he would sit hugging his knees and remembering. The first thing he really remembered was being in the forest, all alone, leaning against a tree and feeling under his shirt to find out what was the matter. Low on one side there was a dimpled tender place, a little soft bulge in his skin, and under that his rib was sore, but even that pain was going away. He looked at his shirt and saw that there was a great smear of dried blood down the side of it; there were spatters on his pants, too.
Then he was sitting in a car, hurtling down a dark road, and the driver, beside him, kept looking at the blood on his shirt. They were out on the desert someplace; he didn't know where he was. The driver, a pale old man with a white mustache, pulled up at a crossroads and said, "This here's as far as I can take you."
He felt thick-witted and sleepy. "I have to get out?"
"Yeah, get out. I can't take you no farther."
The door slammed behind him; he saw the red taillights receding. He turned and started walking up the other road, a gravel road between tall cut banks, dim under the early stars. After a long time he came to a forest of black trees growing in sand. It was dark now, and beginning to rain; he went into the forest and lay down under a tree.
Early in the morning he woke up and heard a voice talking to him from the sky. He couldn't understand what the voice said, but it scared him.
His pain was gone. Even the funny tender place on his side was gone, but he was very hungry and thirsty.
It was strange to be out in the world, where people could see him; it made him feel itchy and ashamed somehow, like the kind of dreams when you walk into class and discover that you are in your underwear. And he still couldn't remember what had happened in the woods, but he knew he couldn't go back there.
It was nearly noon before he reached a traveled road again and got a ride heading south. In a place called Lakeview he found a pay phone in a grocery store and tried to call home. "That number has been disconnected," the operator said.
"Uh -- could you tell me if they have another number?"
"What is the name of the party you are calling?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Donald Anderson."
"One moment. I have a listing for a D. W. Anderson."
"No, that isn't it. Donald R. Anderson, six oh four Columbia Street?"
"I have no listing for an Anderson at that address."
"Thank you," he said numbly, and hung up.
He had had nothing to eat all day but candy bars and two hot dogs, bought at a roadside stand early in the afternoon. He went into a railroad diner, sat in a booth, and had roast beef with gravy and mashed potatoes, two glasses of milk and a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream; he marveled that anything could taste so good.
There were only a few coins in his pockets, and the largest was a quarter. Sitting in the back of the booth, out of sight of the counterman and the waitress, he duplicated the quarter, making stacks and then copying the stacks, until he had eight dollars' worth. At the counter he said, "Could you give me some bills for these, please?"
"Sure -- I can always use the change." The woman counted out a five and three ones, subtracted the amount of his check, and handed him the rest.
Then it was getting dark, and he was sleepy. He went into a motel and asked for a room. "Traveling alone?" the clerk said.
"Yes."
"That'll be five-fifty, in advance."
He paid and took the key. His room was not very nice, but it had a bathtub with a shower and soap and towels. He covered himself with soapsuds, washed his hair, rinsed off and did it all over again for sheer pleasure.
In the morning he went into a store and bought two shirts and a little canvas bag which he thought would make him look more respectable. He changed his shirt in the back room, put the others in his bag, and got on the road again.
Los Angeles now was his destination, but his first sight of the Golden Gate Bridge -- that astonishing construction, soaring light as air across the blue water -- so filled him with wonder that he stopped in San Francisco and never thought of going on again. He liked the hilly streets, and the cable cars, and the crowds of cheerful people.
He stayed in a cheap hotel for two nights, and might have stayed there longer, but on one of his walks he passed a sign in a window: "Furnished Apt. For Rent." He went in and asked about it: it was two rooms and a kitchenette, with a linoleum floor and maple furniture; the rent was fifty-five dollars a month.
He remembered that his Uncle Bruce lived in Provo, Utah; that had stuck in his mind because of the funny name. He got the number from the operatorand called on a Saturday afternoon.
"H ello?" A woman's voice.
"Hello, is this -- Does Bruce Anderson live there?"
"Yes, he does, but he's not home right now. Can I help you?"
"Well, this is Gene Anderson, I'm his nephew -- "
"Why, Gene! It's real nice to hear from you. How's your mom and dad?"
"That's what I was wondering. You haven't heard from them?"
"Why, no. Is there anything the matter?"
"Well, it's just that -- I was away from home, and they kind of moved, and I don't know where they are."
"Well, I never heard of such a thing! My heavens! Where are you now, Gene?"
"I'm, uh, in Texas. Could you -- "
"Well, you tell me your address and phone number, Gene, and when your uncle gets home I'll ask him -- You know, it's funny, your dad was never much for writing, but we always used to get a Christmas card. And I said to Bruce last year, no, it was two years ago Christmas, I said, no card from your brother this year, I wonder if they're all right. Now let me get a pencil."
"I can't -- I haven't got an address to give you, because I'm just passing through, kind of, but I wondered, could you tell me my aunt Cora's number? In Davenport, Iowa? I don't even know what her name is -- I mean her husband's name."
"Well, her husband's name is Johnson, or, wait a minute, is it Jackson? Something like that, but Gene, what do you mean you're just passing through? Who are you staying with? You tell me where to reach you, because I know Bruce will want -- "
"I have to go now," said Gene, and hung up.
In a curious way, he was relieved. For the first time in his life he was free to do whatever he liked, go where he pleased, buy anything he wanted. It seemed to him that he had died and been reborn, back there in the darkness under the tree. Both his old lives were gone, the one at home with his parents and the one in the tree house, and he felt no regret, only a sense of gratitude and liberation.
He changed his dollar bills at the bank for fives and tens, spent them, took change, got more fives and tens. He bought books, paints and brushes, stretched canvases, an easel. He went to the movies e
very night; his favorite films were those with Glenn Ford and John Wayne, but he watched everything with uncritical appreciation, even Ma and Pa Kettle.
Television was a marvel to him; there had been no such thing in Dog River two years ago. He bought a set for two hundred dollars; it had a round picture tube on which the faces of actors bloomed in furry lines of blue-white.
He ate prodigiously and with a pleasure that went beyond the simple satisfaction of hunger: satiny scrambled eggs, toast covered with jam or marmalade, rubbery cheese that broke in conchoidal fractures when he pulled it apart, soda crackers with their mineral incrustations, each one a pure glittering crystal. Every day for lunch and dinner he had roast beef or ham, mashed potatoes hollowed by the chef's ladle and filled with gravy, pale translucent slices of tomato on a bed of lettuce, and for dessert a piece of cream pie, banana or chocolate, that seemed to coat him inside with luxury.