by Unknown
'Careful, fellas, can't see a thing in this soup.'
'Is it always this thick?' St Claire asked.
'Not in the daytime.'
The boat, a ten-foot, flat-bottomed skiff with a thirty hp motor riveted to the stern, lolled in the still water, barely distinguishable in the darkness and mist despite the heavy beam of a one hundred-watt floodlight nearby. Sunderson checked the floor of the skiff and, scowling and muttering to himself, went to a small shed at the end of the dock. He came back with a coil of heavy rope looped over his shoulder.
'Could have sworn I put an anchor and chain in your boat last night,' he said. 'I'll hitch up this line for you. There's lots of trees and stumps out there, you won't have any trouble finding something to tie up to.'
'That'll be fine,' Stenner said, clambering aboard behind St Claire, who had taken the stern and tiller. They set off into the windless, oppressive darkness, their faces and jackets dripping with condensation before they had travelled fifty yards.
'Kinda eerie,' St Claire said, following the beam of a small headlight mounted on the bow.
'Ah, "death, to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face",' Stenner said softly.
'Didn't know you were a poet, Abel,' St Claire chuckled.
'I'm not. Robert Browning was.'
They fell silent and the boat moved slowly up the narrow creek, the motor gurgling behind them. Stenner held a small map trying to figure out where they were. Twenty minutes later Stenner could see another boat vaguely through the damp, shifting, strands of mist. It was tied to a fallen tree.
'Two of them,' Stenner whispered as they approached the blind.
The two hunters were dressed in camouflage suits and had thrown their life jackets into the stern of the boat. Neither one was Darby. Rushes swished along the sides of the skiff as St Claire guided it towards the blind. One of the men, who was tall and dissipated-looking, was taking a long pull from a gallon jug, holding it high in the crook of his arm and tilting his head back, letting the amber fluid run easily into his mouth. A large black lab with friendly eyes sat on the seat beside the other man and ruffed when he saw them coming through the fog.
'Morning,' the man beside the dog said cheerfully. He was a short fellow, bordering on fat, with a jowly face that became almost cherubic when he smiled.
'Morning,' Stenner said as St Claire reversed the engine and angled in beside their boat. The drinker lowered the jug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'Care for a swig?' he asked, offering the bottle. 'Homemade cider. It'll sure take the edge of this chill.'
Stenner said, 'Thanks, anyway.' St Claire reached out and took the jug and, holding up his elbow, expertly dropped it into the angle of his arm and took a long swig. He shuddered as he lowered the container and handed it back.
'Sure right about that,' he said. 'It warms ya right through to yer bones. Thanks.'
'You seen another hunter out here this morning?' Stenner asked.
'You mean Jim Darby. He went on up to six. 'Bout half an hour ago.'
'What's six?' Stenner asked.
'The blinds are numbered. On that map you got there. Old Walt hand-drew the sorry thing. Six is down the creek half a mile or so just before it dumps into the river. This is four here and that one over on the far side of the creek is five.'
'How far away is six?' Stenner asked.
'Half-mile, maybe.'
'Couldn't take more then ten minutes to go up there, could it?'
'More like five, even in the fog.'
'Thanks.'
'You friends of his?' one of them asked.
'Yeah,' St Claire said. 'Thought we'd surprise him. Well, thanks for the help.'
'Sure. Good hunting.'
'Same to you.'
St Claire throttled up and angled the small boat back out into the creek and headed for the six blind. Five minutes later they picked out a small sign on a crooked post with a solitary 6 hand-painted on it. St Claire turned into the tall river grass and cut the engine. The blind was empty.
'Hear that?' St Claire said. Stenner listened keenly and through the fog could hear the low mutter of an engine. Then a dog started barking and a moment later they heard a muffled splash. The engine picked up a little speed and gradually got louder.
'Here he comes,' Stenner whispered.
The sputtering sound of the motor moved slowly towards them and then the skiff emerged through the fog almost directly in front of them. Darby was hunched in the back of the skiff. He seemed preoccupied and did not see them until the dog, a spotted spaniel of some kind, started barking.
'Jesus,' he said with surprise, and cut his motor. He had a 12-gauge shotgun turned down-side-up in his lap, snapping shells into the chamber. St Claire eased a 9mm Clock out of its shoulder holster and casually laid hand and gun on his thigh. As the other boat neared his Darby squinted through the gauzy wisps of fog and suddenly recognized Stenner. He sat up, scowling, as he drew abreast of them. Stenner reached out and grabbed the gunwale of Darby's boat and pulled them together.
'Good morning, Mr Darby,' he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the warrant. As he did, St Claire raised up on one knee and held the pistol out at arm's length, pointing straight at Darby's face.
'Kindly put that scattergun down on the bottom of that skiff,' he said with harsh authority.
'We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr Darby,' Stenner said, and held the warrant in front of his face.
Darby was obviously startled. Even in the fog and predawn gloom, they could see the colour in his face drain from ruddy to pasty-white.
'That's no good up here,' he snarled. The dog snarled menacingly in the front of the boat. 'Shut up, Rags.' The dog whined into silence.
'Sheriff'll be waiting when we get back't'camp,' said St Claire. 'You wouldn't want to add unlawful flight to your problems, now, would ya?'
'I'm not fleeing. Do I look like I'm fleeing to you? I got nothin' to flee about.'
'This warrant charges you with first-degree murder in the death of your wife. You have a right to remain silent - '
'I know the drill,' he hissed, and put the shotgun aside. 'I heard it all before.'
'I'd like you to turn around and put your hands behind your back, please,' Stenner said formally. 'I have to cuff you.'
'I'm not going anywhere,' Darby said.
'Procedure.'
'Don't do that, please,' he said. His tone had changed suddenly from arrogant to almost solicitous.
'I told you, it's procedure.'
'Not behind my back, okay? Where would I go?'
'Don't give us any guff, son,' St Claire said.
'I'm asking you, please don't tie my hands behind my back,' he begged. 'I… I can't swim.'
St Claire looked at Stenner, who in turn looked at Darby, who was plainly terrified. The dog walked unsteadily back and started to growl again.
'I said, shut up!' Darby bellowed, and smacked the dog in the face. It yelped and curled up on the floor of the skiff. 'Please,' he pleaded.
'Cuff him in front, Harve,' Stenner said in a flat, no-nonsense monotone. St Claire holstered his pistol and moved up beside him.
'Thanks,' Darby said, holding his hands out for St Claire to shackle. Once cuffed, Darby laid on the bottom of the boat with his head barely visible over the side. The abused Rags crawled up beside him and licked his face.
'Dogs'll forgive anything,' St Claire said, shaking his head. He looked down at Darby. 'What were ya doin' out there in the marsh?' he asked.
'Took a dump,' Darby said sullenly.
'Helluva dump. Sounded like the Titanic goin' down.' He swung the bow light around, letting its beam cut through the rising fog. Darby's boat had left a pathway through the water grass. 'Lookee there,' St Claire said with a grin. 'He left us a little trail't'foller.'
He tied Darby's boat to the back of their skiff and headed back through the marsh grass. To the east, the rising sun bloodied the mist and cast long, dim shadows ac
ross the marsh. A snake glided past them, unconcerned, looking for breakfast, its head sticking up, perusing the terrain. Off in the still persistent fog, a bird squawked and they could hear its big wings flapping through the grey, awakening morning. Presently the path ended. The grass was folded down in a large circle. At one end, the skeletal fingers of a tree branch reached up out of the water.
'Think this here's the place,' he told Stenner. 'Why don't I tie down here and wait for you to take him back to the lodge and bring the sheriff and a coupla drag lines out here.'
'Fair enough,' Stenner answered, and swung the two boats together. 'I'm coming over there,' he told Darby. 'Keep your dog in tow.'
'He's all noise,' Darby said. 'What's this all about, anyway?'
'Poppy Palmer,' Stenner said, and Darby's face turned the colour of wet cement as Stenner stepped into the skiff.
'What're you talking about?' Darby whined. 'She went to see her sister in Texarkana.'
'She ain't got a sister in Texarkana.'
'That ain't my fault!'
'Now there's a goddamn non sequitur for ya.' St Claire laughed.
'Back as fast as I can, Harve,' Stenner said. 'You'll be okay?'
St Claire looked at him balefully and took a swig of coffee as the other skiff rumbled off through the grass and into the crimson morning.
Sun and wind had sent the fog swirling away and the morning had dawned bright and cold when St Claire saw the thirty-foot powerboat cruising up the creek. He put two fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled shrilly and waved. They turned into the marsh and slid quietly up to his boat. Stenner was standing beside the sheriff, a tall, bulky man in a dark blue jacket wearing a brown campaign hat with his badge pinned to the crown.
'Mornin' gentlemen,' St Claire said. 'Thanks fer comin' by.'
The sheriff's boat churned to a stop as he walked to the bow and, leaning over, took St Claire's hand.
'Jake Broadstroke,' he said in a voice that sounded like it came from his toes. 'Sorry we took so long, had to round up a couple of divers. Hope you two know what you're talking about.'
'Well, it's a hunch,' St Claire said. 'But I got thirty years a hunches under m'belt and I ain't often wrong.'
One of the divers, dressed in a black wet suit and a face mask, slipped over the side of the big boat. The water was waist-deep.
'Hell, Sheriff, I doubt we'll need the drag lines. Bottom's a little murky, but we oughtta be able to tread it out. Somebody hand me a light.'
He took the waterproof lamp, adjusted his face mask, and went under, joined a minute or two later by the other diver. Everybody settled back and waited. Nobody said anything. The only sound was the wind rattling the weeds.
Half an hour crept by. The sheriff gnawed on the remains of a cigar. St Claire spat freely into the wind-rippled water. Stenner said nothing. All eyes gazed out over the reeds. Then the muddy swamp churned a bit and a woman's head suddenly broke the surface, rising up out of the water. Wet-dark hair streaked down over a bloated, blue-grey face, partially covering a gaping mouth filled with mud. Black links of chain were gnarled around her throat. Water dribbled from her glassy eyes and for just a moment or two she appeared to be weeping. Poppy Palmer had danced her last striptease.
'Ah, Jesus,' St Claire said.
'Yes,' Stenner said, almost inaudibly. 'I was hoping we were wrong, too.'
Twenty-Eight
Vail was behind the closed door of his office, a signal to the rest of the staff that he wanted to be left alone. Naomi called it 'diving'. It was as if Vail were underwater, in a different world, one without sound or distraction, one in which all the data and facts of the case were jumbled together. He sought to categorize them, to rearrange them into a logical chronology until they formed a picture that made sense to him. Like a legal jigsaw puzzle, the picture would eventually become clear even though some of the pieces were missing. Only one thing was on his mind: Aaron Stampler - or Raymond Vulpes - one and the same, unchanged, he was certain.
Vail had not yet broached the problem of Stampler/ Vulpes with the staff and would not until he had analysed his meeting with Vulpes and Woodward and formed a beginning strategy for dealing with the situation. He was wearing earphones, listening to the tape he had made of the interview with the psychiatrist and his 'creation'. He knew that somewhere in that tape Vulpes had revealed himself - purposely - to taunt Vail. Somewhere on that tape was a clue that Vail would recognize. Nothing incriminating, just Vulpes letting Vail know that he was still Aaron Stampler and that he had successfully scammed them all. If Vail knew anything he knew that Stampler's ego would ultimately be his undoing.
He had been behind his closed doors for hours when he got the call from Stenner. He and St Claire would be in the office momentarily with details, but they wanted Vail to know that Darby was in custody and that they had discovered Poppy Palmer's body. Vail had to put Stampler/Vulpes aside for now and deal with the Darby case. Twenty minutes later Stenner and St Claire blew into the office like a March wind.
My God, Vail thought, did I just see Stenner smile?
Vail waved Parver into his office and leaned back in his chair. 'Okay,' he said to his two chief investigators, 'let's hear it.'
'He spilled his guts,' St Claire said. 'We had him pegged right on his wife's murder, Shana, the old lady's hearing was perfect. Thing is, Rainey never got hold of Darby, so he didn't know we were after his ass. He thought he was home free except for Poppy Palmer.'
Stenner picked up the story: 'Stretched his luck. Picked her up, told her he was taking her to the airport, drove to his barn, strangled her on the spot.'
'Then the miserable son-bitch threw her in the boot and drove around for the better part of a day with her body,' St Claire continued. 'Spent the night in a motel outside Rockford, and this mornin' he wrapped her up in an anchor chain and dropped her in the marsh up along the Pecatonica.'
'Congratulations,' Vail said. 'You two did a great job.'
'We had some luck,' said Stenner. 'We were actually so close to him, we heard him drop her body in the water.' He turned to Shana Parver. 'But now you've got him.' He held up two fingers. 'Twice.'
'Rainey was waitin' at county jail when we brought him down,' said St Claire. 'Says he wants't'talk.'
Vail laughed. 'Sure he does. Well, the hell with Rainey, it's too late now.' He turned to Shana Parver. 'Okay, Shana, you got your way. Darby's all yours. I assume you'll want to max him out?'
She looked up and smiled, but there was little mirth in the grin. 'Of course…' she said.
'You have a different idea?'
'No, sir!'
'Everything in order?' Vail asked Stenner. 'About the arrest, I mean?'
'We served the warrant on him, Mirandized him, and used the sheriff in Stephenson County to locate the body.'
Parver sat quietly in the corner, nibbling on the corner of one lip.
'What is it, Shana?' Vail asked.
'I can't help thinking if we had taken him down right after the deposition, Poppy Palmer'd still be alive.'
'We didn't have anything to take him down with after the deposition,' Vail answered, a bit annoyed. 'Hell, by the time we got the warrant, she was already dead.'
Parver did not reply to Vail's comment.
'Shana?'
'Yes, sir.'
'If she hadn't lied to us, she'd still be alive.'
'I know.'
'There's no looking back on this. Tell Rainey for me the girl's blood is on his hands, not ours. If he had delivered his man to us when he said he would, Poppy Palmer would be alive today.'
'I'll tell him that.' She nodded.
'Good. No more plea bargains. You wanted to take him all the way? Do it. Take him all the way to the chair.'
'Yes, sir.'
St Claire trudged through the chilly sunset to the records warehouse two blocks away. He had seen the sun rise and now was watching it set, but he was still too adrenalized to quit for the night. He decided to take a stab at findin
g the missing Stampler tapes among the mountains of records and files and boxes in the chaos that was the trial records warehouse. It would be impossible, he knew, but maybe he would get lucky twice in one day.
He walked wearily through the dim, two-storey-high crisscross of corridors lined high with boxes and files and illuminated only by green-shaded bulbs high above the walkways. He heard the muffled tones of Frank Sinatra singing 'Come Fly With Me' echoing from one of the corridors and the dim reflection of a light casting long shadows into the main walkway. When he reached the corner and looked down the aisle, he saw a police sergeant seated in a rocking chair under an old-fashioned floor lamp with a fringed shade. He was listening to a small transistor radio with his feet propped against a grey metal desk, gently rocking himself.
'Hi, there,' St Claire said, his voice reverberating down the corridor.
'The old cop jumped. 'Goddamn,' he said. 'Scare a man half to death.'
'Sorry,' said St Claire, walking down the box-lined corridor. 'M'name's Harve St Claire, DA's office.'
The cop lowered his feet and turned the radio volume down. A handprinted sign on a doubled-over piece of white shirt-board read
C. FELSCHER, CUSTODIAN.
'Sgt. Claude Felscher at your service.' He stuck out his hand.
He was a large, bulky man, overweight and rumpled, his uniform unpressed, his pants sagging under a beer belly, his tie askew and not pulled tight enough to hide the missing top button on his blue uniform shirt. A tangled fringe of grey hair curled over his ears. He looked dusty and forgotten, like a fossil lost in the shadowy corner of a museum. Only his badge added an incongruous touch to the gloomy scene. It was polished and it twinkled under the dim bulb of the old lamp.
St Claire wedged a healthy chew under his lip and offered the plug to the old cop, who shook his head.
'How long've you been custodian here, Claude?'
'Hell, I been here since Cain knocked off Abel.'