The Suspect - L R Wright

by L. R. Wright

  He saw only quiet streets. Almost everything was closed, now; it was after ten o'clock. There were no bars or beer parlors in the village itself, only restaurants where you could order wine or beer with your meal. There was the government liquor store in the shopping center, which closed at six, and there was a lounge in the new hotel down by the water; never any trouble there, the clientele was middle-aged and subdued. It was a short drive to George Wilcox's house. Alberg pulled up in front and switched off the engine.

  The house was dark. The neighbors' houses were dark, too. The stillness made him uneasy, and for a minute he wished he were on Denman Street, in Vancouver's West End. Everything was open there, bars and restaurants and movie theaters, and there was lots of noise. Kids with punk haircuts swished along the sidewalks on skateboards, and the traffic was bumper to bumper, and bicycles weaved among the cars, and English Bay at the end of the street was still crowded even at this hour, and up and down the streets and alleys prostitutes male and female young and old sold themselves while trying to avoid being "pressing and persistent." And children were selling themselves, too. Whenever he thought of the West End, Alberg thought of Stanley Park, vinegary fish and chips, and perversion.

  He got out of the car and went through the gate up to George Wilcox's front door. He knocked softly, waited, knocked again, waited, knocked harder. Nobody came to the door. He couldn't hear a sound.

  He made his way around the side of the house and looked in the windows of George's bedroom. It was empty, the bed made. He went to the other side of the house, squeezing between the house and the cedar hedge. The living room windows were too high; he couldn't see what was on the sills. The cedar hedge made a ninety-degree turn at the end of the house and it was too thick to push through. Alberg went around the other way, to the back yard, and got the ladder from the toolshed. He carried it around the house to the living room side. He leaned it against the house and climbed up until his eyes were level with the windows.

  On the sill to his left he saw the three china flowers set in a base, the two Hummel figurines, the empty pipe holder. On the other sill, two Toby mugs, a pair of brass candlesticks and a candle snuffer, a wooden salt shaker and pepper mill. The objects had been distributed so as to fill evenly all the available space on the windowsill. When he had first seen them they were closer together, and first in line had stood two forty-millimeter shell casings; he remembered thinking they were probably from a Bofors gun, and noticing the decorative work that had been done on them.

  He climbed down and returned the ladder to the toolshed. He knocked on the back door, but nobody answered. He tried the door; it was locked.

  Alberg stood in the middle of the lawn, his hands in his pockets, looking at George's garden and wondering where he had buried them. Then he turned and walked over to the canvas chair and sat down. He put his hands on its wooden arms and crossed his anldes.

  He knew he'd hear George when he came home. He'd hear the front door open and close, and then light would flood into the garden from the kitchen; he was pretty sure George would fix himself some tea or some lemonade or something before he went to bed.

  The moon shone fitfully from behind the passing clouds. The tide was going out; there was a narrow strip of hard wet sand between the water and the rocky beach. The sound of the sea lapping at the land was hypnotic, soothing. He heard a bird, maybe crying out from a dream; a dog barking, from far away; and sometimes a little whisper from George's garden, as a breeze passed through it.

  Eventually Alberg became aware of a new sound. He realized that it was the sound of oars.

  He stood up and went down the lawn toward the beach.

  The slap of the oars against the water was uneven; there wasn't a great deal of strength behind it; the oars penetrated shallowly and often seemed only to shudder against the surface of the water. Alberg stared out at the sea and finally almost dead ahead saw a black shape hunched over in a small rowboat, its back to the shore. The shape stopped to rest, leaning on the oars. Then it bent again to its rowing, weak and strained; the oars lifted, struck the water, were dragged ineffectually back. The. moon suddenly poured white light from a hole in the clouds and, like an actor stepping into a spotlight, George Wilcox rowed his small boat out of the darkness and into its radiant trail. Alberg watched without moving as slowly the old man traversed the wide streak of silver washed upon the water. He rowed laboriously, awkwardly, with an immense and terrifying dignity, moonlight clothing him and his boat in a cool silver glow.

  "You crafty old bugger," Alberg whispered.

  By the time George reached the rocky beach, the moon was once more veiled. Alberg waited until the bow of the rowboat ground upon sand, and George climbed wearily over the side. As he reached for the rope, trying to beach the rowboat, Alberg waded through the water toward him.

  George stared at him, hanging on to the edge of the boat.

  Alberg reached past him and grabbed the rope. George let go, and Alberg pulled the boat across the beach and up onto the lawn, next to the toolshed. He got George's damp pea jacket from the bottom of the boat and waited for George to slosh through the water and over the rocks and into his back yard. "What were you doing out there at this time of night, George?” said Alberg, eonversationally. He held out the jacket, and George took it. The old man was bent over and hobbling. "Where'd you get the boat? It's your friend Carlyle's boat, isn't it?”

  "It's mine, now,” said George. "Or so you people tell me. Everything's mine, now; Isn't that what you said?”

  "Not quite yet, George. We have to sort out the business of the homicide, first. Keep the crime scene sealed, and all that. There's a corporal on duty at the house, you know. You didn't know that? Yeah, he's there. Must spend all his time around front. I'll have to have a word with him."

  "You do that,” said George.

  "No, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait awhile before you stake your claim to Carlyle's loot, George. Taking his boat—that could get you into trouble.”

  "The corporal and I, we're in trouble together, that's the way I figure it,” said George. He began shuffling toward his back door. Alberg followed.

  "Do you own a blue sweater, George, by any chanee?”

  "I used to, policeman. I don't any more," said George.

  "You must be worn out, George, after all that rowing. You rowed quite a distance, too, I guess. Had to make sure the water was deep enough.”

  George unlocked the door and opened it and reached inside to turn on the kitchen light. "I don't lmow what the hell you're talking about.” He turned around and grasped the doorway, a hand on either side, holding himself up. His face was gray with exhaustion. His pants and shoes were soaked and dripped seawater onto his kitchen floor.

  "You couldn't just dump them anywhere,” said Alberg. "It you didn't take them far enough out they'd probably get washed up on somebody's beach, right?”

  "Good night," said George, and made to close the door. Alberg held it open. "I'm real sorry about this, George," he said softly. "I really am."

  "Good night," said George, and tried again to close the door.

  "You should have gotten rid of them right away," said Alberg.

  "I have to look for them, now. Now that I know they're out there, I have to look for them. And I'm going to find them.”

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Look for what? book for them, go ahead, look for anything you damn feel like looking for, just let me get to bed."

  "In a minute," said Alberg, still holding the door open.

  "I think you should know what I'm going to do. First I'll send out the divers. You know we've got a couple of divers, don't you?"

  George looked at him grimly, shoulders hunched, white hair disheveled, pants still dripping. He was trembling from cold and tiredness.

  "They might find them, they might not," said Alberg. "Depends on how far out you managed to get. If they don't, then I call in the sea search people from Vancouver. Now this is a very special outfi
t, George. They do lots of work for us. They've got a big boat with all kinds of special gizmos on board."

  "I don't give a good goddamn for your gizmos. I don't know what the hell you're babbling about. I go out for a little row, I go too far for my own good, I come back wrecked, all I want to do is get to bed, you babble on to me about gizmos. Go away.” He pulled again, weakly, at the door which Alberg continued to hold open.

  "They've got underwater cameras, and side-scan sonar, and believe me, George—” He leaned closer to the old man, who pulled away, and whispered, "There is nothing those guys can't find. Nothing.” He shook his head in admiration. "They've found something as small as an engagement ring, George, in two hundred feet of water. Do you think they won't be able to locate a couple of World War Two shell casings?”

  George looked steadily at Alberg. He stood as straight as his screaming shoulders would allow. "Are you trying to scare me?"

  Alberg let go of the door and stepped back. "I thought there might be something you'd like to tell me, Mr. Wilcox."

  "You thought wrong, sonny. I've got nothing to say to you. Nothing.” He closed the door, slowly and quietly.

  Alberg went around to the front of the house and got into his car. He wasn't sure how he felt. He could identify several things—frustration, exhilaration, excitement, resolution—but there were other things shuffling uneasily around inside his brain that he was less anxious to put a name to.

  He drove directly to the detachment office, where he called the divers and told them to meet him at the police boat as soon as the sun was up.

  CHAPTER 21

  When George awoke the next morning, one week after the murder, he felt like something washed up by the tide, scoured and bloated. His aches were so deep, so significant, that for several minutes he didn't even try to move. But he had to go to the bathroom. He tempted to push himself up with his elbows, but it was too painful. He seriously considered, then, relieving himself right there in his bed. Incontinence, though—that was the end, that was death.

  He eventually got himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The aches were concentrated in his shoulders, the back of his neck, his hands, and his thighs. It was obviously important to be active today. Maybe by nightfall the pain would have subsided into stiffness. He groaned as he shoved himself off the bed with arms that trembled. He staggered, shoulders hunched and knees bent, into the bathroom.

  He had dreamed not of shell casings or Mounties, bloodied rugs or jail. He had dreamed of rowing, and of the fraudulent sea, which in his dream had transformed itself from the calm blue splendor of the last weeks into titanic fury. He flailed at it with useless oars, clung tight to his small rowboat, and the sea flung him from wavetop to wavetop, into chasm after chasm, until finally it hurled him onto a small island which at first seemed to be deserted, and then he saw Carlyle sitting on a big rock outside a log cabin. Carlyle was puffing on a pipe and singing "When the Saints Go Matching In," and on a clothesline behind him hung a row of salmon, attached to the line with wooden clothespins, and they were flashing and flipping in the sun, still alive.

  George hobbled into the kitchen to make coffee. He had spooned decaffeinated granules into a cup and was sitting in his chair, hands on his knees, waiting for the kettle to boil, when he became aware of faint shouts.

  From his window he saw the R.C.M.P. boat out on the water, about a hundred feet offshore. There were two men on board who appeared to be staring down at the sea. Then a black shiny figure popped out of the water slick as a seal, and George knew the divers were at work.

  The clothes he had worn last night were still in a heap on his bedroom floor.

  It was cloudy today, as he had expected.

  He took the kettle off the stove, put on an old hat, and went painfully out into his garden. He watered the flowers and the vegetables. He did some weeding. The R.C.M.P. boat moved slightly farther out, stopping somewhat north of George's beach.

  He mixed up a batch of insecticidal soap and washed the aphids from his rosebushes. He thought he ought to mow his small lawn, and the one in front, too, but his shoulders hurt too much.

  After an hour or so the boat moved slowly southward, past his beach, and anchored there; meanwhile George got a small pair of clippers from his toolshed and deadheaded the roses ; and the marigolds. Then he picked some peas and took them into the kitchen. While he was inside, he took three aspirin. When he went out again he saw the divers climb aboard the R.C.M.P. boat and watched it move quickly across the water and disappear around the spit.

  George sat down heavily in his canvas chair. It was still hot, despite the cloud cover.

  He heard it long before he saw it. He didn't recognize the sound of it., but knew before it hove into view what it must be. And then it appeared, cutting a frothy swath through the steel-gray sea, a twenty-five-foot aluminum boat with a peculiar radarlike structure mounted on its deck. George watched it come to a stop about two hundred feet from shore, almost directly out from his beach. There were two men on board. He watched them fiddling with something; then he thought he saw them lower something overboard.

  George stood up quickly. He had to bend over, pressing his hands against his thighs, until the pain there diminished. He went almost blindly through his house and out the front door and, once on the road, turned himself toward Sechelt. He began to walk along the dusty shoulder. He was shuddering, despite the warmth of the day, and in his chest was a great lump which he banged at with an ineffectual fist.

  * * *

  "You have been seen,” said Phyllis Dempter, "on the beach, with a Mountie. Practically holding hands, I'm told.” She was lounging against the counter, behind which Cassandra sat labeling books for the reserve shelf. "When did all this begin? Did you get yourself arrested? Is that how it started?”

  "Nothing has started, Phyllis,” said Cassandra. She taped a label marked VANDERBERG on a copy of James Michener's Space. "We've had lunch, and we went for a walk on the beach. No big deal, believe me."

  "Then why is your face pink?” said Phyllis. She began to laugh.

  "My face is pink because you're embarrassing me. This is no place for a discussion of my personal life.” Stephen King's Pet Cemetery was put aside for Mrs. Callihoo, a widow who operated a day-care center in the basement of the United Church. "Besides,” said Cassandra, "I blush easily.”

  "No, really," said Phyllis, leaning farther across the counter. "Te1l me. How did you meet him? It couldn't have been your ad. Could it?" She looked intently at Cassandra. "You mean to say it was? It was the ad?"

  "Shut up, Phyllis. We're not alone in here." Behind the partition separating the counter from a large work area, a volunteer was sorting returned books. "I told you,” said Phyllis complacently. She stood up and tucked her bright red shirt smoothly into her jeans. "My dad's having a hell of a good time through the ads. I told you something would come of it eventually. When do I get to meet him?”

  Cassandra wrote FRATINO on a label and affixed it to Cold Heaven, by Brian Moore. "I don't even know whether I'm going to see him again," she said. "I'm thinking about putting in another ad.”

  "Liar," said Phyllis. She picked up her purse and the two books she'd checked out. "But that's okay. Be closemouthed. It's typical. You jabber away a mile a minute, but never about anything important. You give yourself away, you know, Cassie."

  She reached over to pat Cassandra's hand. "But I love you anyway."

  As she left the library, George Wilcox came in. Cassandra's smile faded. She got up quickly and went to him. "Mr. Wilcox. What's wrong? What's the matter?"

  He looked at her vacantly. He was wearing earth-stained pants held up by suspenders, a white shirt, soiled and rumpled, and a shapeless felt hat, gray, with a drooping brim. On his feet were tattered old running shoes. His face was crumpled and weary. "I forgot my books," he said, and she saw panic in his eyes.

  She asked the volunteer to take over, grabbed her purse from under the counter, and ushered George gently
out the door, down the sidewalk, and into a small coffee shop. '

  It was lunchtime. Most of the stools at the counter were filled, and many of the tables. Cassandra stood just inside the door, her arm around George protectively, and willed the couple at the table in the corner to leave. George stood quietly, his head bowed; every once in a while he pounded his chest, almost tentatively.

  "Do you hurt somewhere?" she said, bending to speak directly into his ear. "Does your chest hurt?"

  He shook his head, slowly.

  The people at, the comer table stood up. The man left a tip while the woman started for the door. Cassandra led George over and sat him down; she exchanged a nod with the departing customers, whom she saw sometimes in the library. She and George sat without speaking as the waitress, who to Cassandra's relief was a stranger to her, cleared the table and gave them menus. »

  "What have you eaten today?" said Cassandra.

  George lifted his head and pondered this. "Nothing, I think.”

  She ordered for them both: coffee for her, beef barley soup and a glass of milk for George.

  "I've been working in my garden,” said George. "Forgot to change my clothes. Forgot my books, forgot to change—I'm getting senile, that's what it is.”

  "That's not what it is,” said Cassandra.

  "Oh, yeah? What then?" He seemed genuinely curious.

  "I don't know. You don't look well. You keep putting your hand on your chest. Doesn't it feel right, in there? Should I take you to your doctor?"

  "Doesn't feel right at all, no," George agreed. "No doctor, though. I don't think so. No."

  He looked with interest at his soup, which had just been placed in front of him. He took a sip of milk. "Don't care much for milk," he said. "But it's good for you, I admit it.”

  His shaky fingers struggled with the small package of crackers that had come with the soup. Cassandra took it from him and opened it. He ate one of the crackers, slowly, and drank some more milk.