The Truth of the Matter

by John Lutz

  It would be dishonorable and unreasonable not to believe her, he told himself at last. To not believe Ellie would be betraying his faith in her, his faith in himself. She was sure as hell happy with him, and it would be stupid to throw unfounded suspicions at her. It was natural to feel a little jealous with a woman like Ellie. Not that Boadeen wouldn’t want to…

  Ellie flipped the refrigerator door shut and turned to him. “What would you like for lunch?”

  “How about hamburgers,” Roebuck said, “and a salad from that head of lettuce you bought.”

  “Be ready in no time.” Ellie started to fold the empty grocery bag, then stopped. “Darn it, I forgot cigarettes! The one thing we needed bad.”

  “I reckon you better stop at Blatkin’s on the way back to the lake and buy something, just to make it look good.” Boadeen had said when she was getting dressed. “But I want you to forget something important, like cigarettes.” He’d turned his eager smile on her. “You better forget your cigarettes and drive back into town tomorrow and buy some.”

  “That’s okay,” Roebuck said, looking down at the table top. “We’ve got enough to last this afternoon and evening. You can drive back into town tomorrow and buy some.”

  6

  In the remaining week that she and Roebuck stayed at the cabin, Ellie had driven into Danton on some pretext to meet Boadeen three times. Saturday now. The day before Roebuck and Ellie were to leave the cabin.

  Sheriff Boadeen awoke early that morning, did his sitting up exercises and then breakfasted on toast and coffee before going downstairs to his office. He pulled the Venetian blind cord on the front window, blinking at the burst of morning light. Still unable to see clearly, he stood before the wall mirror to adjust his tie and place his cap on his head at just the right angle. Then he unlocked the front door and sat behind his desk to thumb idly through the latest Law Enforcement Magazine.

  But he found his mind wandering to Ellie, to her warmth and her tight softness. Damned if she wasn’t a hot one! And one who had been around, one who knew things….Boadeen turned a page of his magazine and chuckled. He bet there were some things that husband of hers didn’t know about her.

  The sheriff finished glancing through the magazine and slipped it carefully into a drawer. He sat drumming his fingers on the desk top for a moment before picking up the receiver of one of his phones.

  “This is the sheriff,” he said with authority. “Get me the post office.”

  He listened to the clicking, buzzing mysteries of the switchboard.

  “I want to talk to Jack Gardner,” he said, when someone at the post office had answered the phone.

  “Jack? How about running over here with those wanted circulars from the East if they came in yet. They are? Good. I’ll be waiting for you in the office.”

  The sheriff hung up the phone and smiled. There was no regular mail delivery until this afternoon, but he desired his weekly portfolio of wanted posters now. Old Jack Gardner would bring them to him as he did almost every week. He would do Sheriff Boadeen that favor because the sheriff had something on him, from long ago. The sheriff had something on almost everybody in Danton. Cutting into a town, he mused, was like cutting into a malignant cancer patient; the deeper you cut and explored, the more disease you found. And if they had made mistakes without covering them up, that was their tough luck. That was the game.

  Boadeen leaned back in his desk chair and visualized the governor’s mansion. After all, life was politics and politics was life. He wondered if the governor had ever made the mistake of not covering a sin. For now, wondering was all he would do; that would be thin ice for a county sheriff to fish on.

  Old Mr. Gardner delivered the plain brown envelope addressed to Sheriff Boadeen and made his exit with deference.

  Boadeen opened the envelope and studied the first three circulars: An armed robber from Washington D.C., a counterfeiter, and a murderer who had abducted and killed a twelve-year-old schoolgirl in Cairo, Illinois. The sheriff looked at the murderer’s picture, at the insolent mouth and heavily lidded eyes. How he would love to get his hands around that one’s neck! How he would love to make him feel what that poor schoolgirl felt! How he would love to do that!

  The telephone rang and Boadeen dropped the circulars to the desk and lifted the receiver.

  It was Ben Slattery, from Slavery’s Diner. Boadeen knew about Slattery’s wife, and he was watching Slattery’s daughter.

  It seemed that last night some kids had vandalized the back of the diner, tipping over trash cans, splashing paint, scrawling obscenities on the brick wall.

  Wondering if the young schoolgirl in Cairo had been raped before she was murdered, Sheriff Boadeen got his fingerprint kit and went right over there.

  It was past noon when he returned, because he had drawn out the investigation and accepted a free lunch from Slattery. The sheriff was walking to a filing cabinet to get paper to write a report on the Slattery vandalism when his eye fell on the wanted circulars still lying on his desk. The fourth circular, the one he would have looked at next, was half-exposed at an angle.

  Boadeen stopped cold and cocked his head. Then he jumped to the desk to study the photograph on the fourth circular carefully. It sure as hell looked like Lou Watson, a younger Watson, with fewer lines and more hair, but the face had the same look about it. Boadeen read beneath his breath as his eyes skipped over the circular: Wanted for murder and robbery…last seen in Collinsville with a woman companion described as blonde, average height and weight, in her thirties…believed to be heading West.

  A murderer! Sheriff Boadeen sat down behind his desk and tilted his cap back on his head. A murderer right here at the lake—in his jurisdiction!

  He told himself to slow down. The wanted man’s name was Lou Roebuck, not Watson, and he couldn’t be sure from the photograph, not completely sure, anyway. But they did act peculiar. And that would explain why Ellie had been so accessible to him—to keep him from getting suspicious, and to have something on him if he did get suspicious. Not that it mattered, he thought with a chuckle. She couldn’t prove they had ever been together; it would sound to the court like a desperate, vengeful lie. No, she could prove nothing. He’d seen to that. The sheriff was careful of his reputation.

  Boadeen wasn’t exactly hurt by Ellie, or angry about how she’d tried to play him for a fool. After all, he’d gotten what he wanted, and it looked like he’d have the last, best laugh.

  He reached for the phone to call Will Clacker, his sometime deputy, and the State Patrol. Then he withdrew his hand. What a feather in his hat if he could bring them in alone. What a hatful of feathers! He could say he’d suspected all along, that he’d been working on the case for three weeks.

  Again he told himself to slow down. He still wasn’t sure, not absolutely sure. And there was only one way to find out. He walked to the cherry wood gun cabinet and opened the drawer near its base. Withdrawing some extra shotgun shells for the riot gun, he slipped them into his pocket and closed and locked the cabinet drawer. Then he checked the .38 Special that hung at his hip and made sure every loop in his thick cartridge belt contained a bullet. He knew that Roebuck, or Watson or whoever he was, was armed. But hadn’t he said that day at the lake he was only firing a .22 pistol? He would be able to see at a glance that the sheriff had him out-gunned even if he did decide to play hard to bring in.

  Boadeen reached for the wanted circular to study the photograph once more, then he folded it in four equal parts and slipped it into his breast pocket. As his hand rested on the door knob he again considered phoning his part-time deputy. But that would be dividing the glory and the political property in half—maybe more than half. Who knew what might happen up there if Lou Watson really was Lou Roebuck?

  The sheriff stepped outside, locked the door behind him and walked around back to where the cruiser sat baking in the early afternoon heat. He got in, started the engine and rolled down all the windows before driving away.

  There was no re
ason the cruiser shouldn’t have air conditioning, he thought as he cut onto the highway and accelerated past the speed limit.

  7

  Roebuck and Ellie were rowing back from their last morning on Lake Chippewa. Roebuck dug deeply with the oars, enjoying the resistance of the clear water, shattering the mirror-like surface of reflected sun with each stroke. He watched the thousands of sunlit planes of water shimmer out behind the boat, then gently lose their watery motion to settle back into one smooth crystalline surface, as if the boat had never passed.

  “I’ll be real sorry to leave,” Ellie said, looking beyond him, over his right shoulder at the pine cabin that was moving closer with each stroke of the oars. “I get more attached to places than I ought to.”

  “The sooner we leave the better,” Roebuck said. “People like us shouldn’t stay long in one place.”

  Ellie let her hand trail in the water. “Oh, you’re right, I guess. But we’re still probably safe here. I think you worry too much about Sheriff Boadeen.”

  “He’s not as stupid as he looks,” Roebuck said in a clipped voice.

  “No matter now. We’ll leave tomorrow without attracting any attention and never see him again.”

  “I want to leave early in the morning,” Roebuck said. “Before most people are up.”

  “I guess we might as well get used to leaving places early in the morning again,” Ellie said.

  It occurred to Roebuck that he was getting hungry. On the backstroke of the oars he looked at his watch. It was past noon already. Time was moving on. Soon they would be gone from a place that he didn’t want to leave but would be glad to get away from. And they were traveling to what? Could they find another place like this, ever? Or would Boadeen’s presence be with them? Roebuck was sure that eventually the law would discover that they’d taken refuge here, and they would put that fact in their files. Would fear of the law and Benny Gipp be a part of any new paradise they found?

  With one last satisfying burst of strength, Roebuck pulled back on the oars and propelled the boat up onto the mud bank. He climbed out, not minding the warm mud on his bare feet, and looped the rope around the damp tree trunk.

  “We might as well take the fishing gear,” he said, helping Ellie out of the boat. He stepped past her, with one foot in the water, and reached into the boat for the tackle box and rods.

  Ellie took the rods from his hand and they walked toward the cabin.

  It would be the last time they made that walk, Roebuck thought. One small portion of contentment gone from his harried life.

  In the cabin they changed out of their fishing clothes. Roebuck watched Ellie slip into her slacks and zip them up the side without a trace of false modesty. He felt the desire to make love to her stir within him. Then he decided to wait until tonight, to make everything right for the last time here.

  They were sipping a cool drink when they heard the now familiar sound of Sheriff Boadeen’s cruiser approaching.

  One last time, Roebuck thought as he and Ellie caught one another’s eye. One last time to put up with that bastard. They stepped out onto the porch and waited, their drinks in their hands, watching the mouth of the dirt road where it emerged from the woods.

  Boadeen parked the car in its customary spot and got out. Roebuck felt a twinge of uneasiness as he saw that the sheriff was carrying the walnut stocked riot gun in his right hand.

  Sheriff Boadeen smiled. “’Lo.” He walked toward them casually. “Knew you folk were leaving tomorrow and thought I’d just stop by to wish you a safe trip.”

  “We thank you, Sheriff,” Ellie said brightly.

  Roebuck nodded toward the riot gun. “Why the weaponry?”

  “Why, I noticed you admired this,” Boadeen said. “Thought you might want to take a closer look at it before you go. Not another gun like it in the county.” He turned the long barreled shotgun sideways and tossed it to Roebuck. “It ain’t loaded.”

  Roebuck checked the breech and found that the gun was truly empty. He didn’t see Boadeen studying him as he lifted the gun to his shoulder to test for balance and sighted in on the top of a tree limb.

  “Feels good,” Roebuck said. “Like a gun I hunted with once in the Black Forest.”

  “It’s accurate at long range,” Boadeen said proudly, “but it throws a pattern that’ll stop a crowd.”

  Roebuck tossed the empty shotgun back to him. Sheriff Boadeen caught it absently and looked up at the sky.

  “Hot today,” he said.

  “C’mon in,” Ellie said. “We’ll have a last drink before you go.”

  Still carrying the riot gun, Boadeen followed them into the cabin, noting as he had more carefully before that Ellie could be described as blonde and of average height and build. Average, he thought with a secret smile, until you saw her with her clothes off.

  “You know,” the sheriff said as they entered the cabin, “I lived in Illinois myself for a while. Collinsville. You ever been there?”

  “No,” Roebuck said, his heart picking up a beat, “never.”

  Boadeen sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs. “Sure glad you folk had a good time at the lake. Word of mouth advertising is the best kind there is.”

  “I’ll make us some fresh drinks,” Ellie said. She went into the kitchen and Roebuck followed her. Boadeen had figured that Collinsville remark would get them off alone together.

  While they were in the kitchen he drew three shotgun shells from his pocket and fed them into the riot gun. Then he leaned the gun against the sofa cushions in its former position.

  Roebuck and Ellie returned, and Boadeen stood to receive his Scotch and water.

  Then they all sat as they had many evenings before, in a rough semicircle, only this time around the dark cavity of the cold fireplace.

  “I sure am going to miss you folk,” Boadeen said amiably as he took a sip of his drink.

  “We’ve enjoyed your company too,” Ellie said.

  Roebuck had the feeling the sheriff was scrutinizing him, studying his features with those flat lawman’s eyes, despite Ellie telling him in the kitchen not to worry about the reference to Collinsville. “Lots of people have been in Collinsville,” she had whispered, “lots of people!” But Roebuck knew that more people hadn’t.

  Sheriff Boadeen sighed, as if making up his mind to something, and beneath the smooth fleshiness of his face his jaw clenched.

  “Here’s a little something you folk might want to see before you leave,” he said in a friendly voice. He withdrew the wanted circular from his shirt pocket, unfolded it carefully and handed it to Roebuck.

  The sheriff watched them study the wanted circular, saw the flitting expression of fear on Roebuck’s face before he’d had a chance to adjust to the shock. And in that moment Boadeen was sure.

  Suddenly all three of them were standing, and the riot gun was in Boadeen’s hands and pointing exactly between Roebuck and Ellie.

  “Don’t move now, Louis Roebuck,” the sheriff said, forming his words carefully. There was remarkable menace in that drawling command.

  Roebuck stammered as the wanted circular with his picture on it slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Then he remembered that the riot gun had been empty when he’d examined it. “You’ve got the wrong man, Sheriff,” he said in an easier voice.

  Boadeen grinned from behind the long barrel. “I loaded the riot gun while you two were in the kitchen.”

  Roebuck stared at the cavernous dark twelve-gauge hole with renewed horror. He had never before had a loaded gun pointed at him, and he found that his knees were trembling so that he was having trouble keeping his balance. Ellie was moving slowly to the side while Boadeen was concentrating on Roebuck, until she was standing about three feet from where she’d been.

  “What’s going to happen now?” Roebuck asked, not looking at the yawning end of the shotgun.

  “The electric chair if I have anything to say about it,” Boadeen answered with a sneer. “I was on to you all
along, feeling you out.” He waved the gun barrel slightly to take in Ellie as he talked. “How long did you two think you could evade justice?”

  “We’re not running from justice,” Ellie said in a confident tone. “You’ve made a mistake, Sheriff.”

  Boadeen’s own confidence was shaken for an instant. Suppose he had made a mistake? It would be the end of his career … the end of everything. He planted his feet farther apart and stood his ground. “We’ll let the courts decide who’s made a mistake.”

  From the corner of his eye Roebuck saw that Ellie’s right hand had moved up so that she was leaning on the mantel, with her fingertips very close to the ends of the two fishing rods propped against the stonework.

  The radio in Boadeen’s cruiser was a citizen’s band type, unable to cut in on the State Patrol’s frequency, so his plan was to make a dramatic entrance with his prisoners at the lake office and phone the Patrol. “I want you folk to march outside now,” he said, waving the gun. “We’re going to get in that boat and cross the lake to the office.”

  They stood still, and Sheriff Boadeen’s face set in determined lines. “Let’s move!”

  Roebuck saw Ellie’s fingers curl about the thin end of one of the casting rods, then suddenly she stepped to the side and was swinging the rod with both hands as if it were a baseball bat.

  For a horrifying instant Roebuck saw that as she was swinging the slender end of the rod, the thick end with the reel seemed to be standing still, as if held fast by a wall of air. But Ellie had learned well the value of wrist action in casting. Boadeen started to turn, perhaps because he’d seen Roebuck’s widening eyes or perhaps because of the swishing sound. He opened his mouth to speak as the heavy reel flashed through the air in a lightning arc and struck him on the side of the head.