Detour to Death

by Helen Nielsen

  “It’s her condition,” Ada insisted. “She’s going to have a baby-”

  “What would you know about her condition?” Virgil cut in. “As for her crazy story, Trace, I guess you mean the way she keeps hollering about Francy’s death. Well, for your information I can’t tell them there’s nothing in that. I don’t know how Francy Allen died—Do you?”

  The stomp of Virgil’s heavy footsteps could be heard all the way down the hall, and then the kitchen was as quiet as the end of time. Now Trace knew what he’d followed Virgil inside to find out. Somehow he’d known all the time.

  “She died of sin,” Ada murmured. “Everybody dies of sin.”

  Everybody dies of sin. Trace carried the words with him all the way across town to a flat brick building with colored-glass windows and a faded canopy running out to the street. You wouldn’t think it to look at Cooperton now, but once it had been a thriving community, bigger than Red Rock to the north, grander than Junction City to the south. Then the thread of fortune slowly ran out. The mines, copper and lead and gold, closed down one by one, or settled down to a steady trickle of production; the railroads pulled up their tracks and retreated, and the transcontinental highways had no use for a has-been. But through it all, the first days, the boom days, and the latter days, Fisher’s Mortuary stood like a red-brick monument to the fragility of man.

  Two senior Fishers had already required the services of their own establishment. The current proprietor, representative of the third generation, was a small, graying man with yellowish skin and soft brown eyes. He greeted Trace as if he were a favored connoisseur entering an exclusive art gallery.

  “She is beautiful, Mr. Cooper.” He beamed. “I think you’ll agree that I’ve followed your wishes completely.”

  Trace was a bit vague as to what was meant by these words. Yesterday was a soggy memory full of pain and regret, but the stale air of this drab waiting-room brought back what he didn’t want to remember. In this very spot he had stood ordering a funeral for Francy, pouring out more grief than any man would show without sufficient bourbon to dissolve his reticence; and then the door had opened behind him and Joyce had come in. She wasn’t alone. Joyce was never alone if Lowell Glenn could reach her. The sight of them together was salt in an old wound.

  “You can’t come!” he shouted. “You’re not invited to Francy’s funeral!”

  Sober, Trace would have caught the signal in Fisher’s expressive eyes—but how could he know the old man was dead? All he knew, all he’d known for hours, was that Francy was gone where she couldn’t be hurt any more. But now Joyce was staring at him with white horror in her face. Didn’t she know? Hadn’t she heard what was happening to Trace Cooper? The whole town knew he was nothing but a drunken bum; she had no right to look so stricken!

  “Take a good look!” he said. “Be sure you know me the next time we meet!”

  “Mr. Cooper,” Fisher began, “you don’t understand—”

  “Of course I understand! Some women are good and some women are bad, that’s all there is to understand. Do you know the difference, Fisher? The bad ones have a heart. The bad ones give what the good ones sell—”

  Trace didn’t want to think about the rest. Like an automaton he followed Fisher through a draped doorway, not knowing or caring where they were going until it was too late. When they stopped, it was at the side of Francy’s coffin.

  “It’s the best one I had, Mr. Cooper,” the mortician explained. “And I sent down for that blue dress you mentioned. She looks real lifelike, doesn’t she?”

  The dead never looked lifelike to Trace—least of all Francy. She was too young to be lying there that way. She’d lived too little—or maybe too much in too little time. Just now Trace couldn’t remember which year it was that Francy had come to the ranch, but he’d been a youngster too tall for his trousers and she was a little tyke, newly orphaned, come to stay with her grandmother, the housekeeper. She was a gawky adolescent when he was at college, and belle of the high school when he went overseas. Whatever her age, she still looked as if she should be wearing ribbons in her yellow hair.

  “I think I did a real nice job,” Fisher commented. “The bruises hardly show.”

  Now Trace remembered what he’d come for: the bruises, the wound. “It was murder, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  Fisher looked frightened. “I couldn’t say, Mr. Cooper. I just couldn’t say.”

  “But suppose you could say? Nobody’s going to quote you.”

  “Well, at first I thought it was an accident—one of those hit-and-run affairs, but after what happened to the doctor—I mean, there’s a great similarity.”

  Trace knew exactly what he meant. Viola Wade wasn’t the only imaginative person in the community; the conclusion she’d reached was probably becoming prevalent.

  “What about the death certificate?” he asked. “Charley Gaynor must have signed one or you couldn’t have taken Francy out of the hospital.”

  “That’s filed in Red Rock—oh, I see what you mean. Charley was coroner for this area, wasn’t he? He might have made a report. I guess Virgil will check on that. But you know, they’re saying that boy might have been down here the night Francy was—well, whatever happened to her, and that he drove back toward Red Rock and wrecked his car to hide the bloodstains.”

  “Bloodstains?” Trace echoed. “What bloodstains—and what car?”

  “His car—Danny Ross’s. He told Virgil that he was driving a car that broke down yesterday morning so he shoved it over the grade and went on foot until Charley offered him a ride. That sounds fishy, doesn’t it? They’re saying he pushed it over and then came back this way as if he’d never been here before.”

  All the time he talked Fisher was fussing with Francy, straightening her dress, working at a blue smudge on the fingers of her right hand. “Mean stuff to get off,” he muttered, and Trace turned away. He didn’t want to insult the little man’s artistry, but Francy didn’t look lifelike at all. As for the story he’d just heard, it was news to Trace—car and all—but he had an old argument with whatever “they say.”

  “It might be a good idea to find that car before hanging the kid twice,” he muttered.

  • • •

  Outside, the sun was hanging up a record for the season, and a bunch of noisy kids were playing baseball on a vacant lot. Down the street a couple of high-school girls were giggling their way to the drugstore for an afternoon Coke, and everything was normal and alive.

  Trace was shaking when he crawled up beside Arthur in the jeep. He didn’t want to go to Junction City. He wanted to turn around and make a beeline for Murph’s bar so he could take up where he’d left off last night.

  “Cut it out, Trace,” Arthur said, switching on the ignition. “Stop blaming yourself for everything. You couldn’t help what happened to Francy.”

  CHAPTER 8

  AFTER THE FIRST HOUR Danny began to let up on the accelerator. No one could drive that hard continually, not even an expert hot rodder, and it wasn’t easy to hold the bouncing sedan on that washboard road. The first few miles had been a series of twists and turns, but now the narrow trail had straightened out to cut like an arrow across the flat belly of the desert. The mountain walls still rose to the east and the west, lower now or else farther away, but nothing obstructed the view of that empty road before him. Empty before and empty behind, with not a sign of pursuit.

  At first it seemed good not to be followed. It was just that kind of a road, and he was being lucky for a change; but then Danny began to worry. What if he had hit the sheriff too hard? What if he wasn’t being followed simply because no one had yet found the body? Such a thought was enough to bring that speedometer down another twenty points and put a chill on the air in that steaming sedan. Then Danny remembered the radio and turned a switch on the dashboard. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “… is believed to be heading south toward the border,” the announcer was saying, “probably on the Junction City road.” A di
p in the road faded out the voice momentarily, but Danny knew who the announcer was talking about. “We repeat, this man is armed,” the voice resumed. “He has escaped custody of the sheriff at Cooperton and is fleeing in the sheriff’s car, license number—”

  Danny automatically resumed speed. The more that voice talked, the faster he drove. Now it was the description, the very picture of Danny Ross in his faded Levi’s and leather jacket called out as if he were being set up for auction. Sold to the highest bidder, only don’t get too close because this kid’s a killer—this kid has a gun. They were going to give Danny ideas if they kept broadcasting that stuff. He shut off the radio. It was hard enough to think without that noise.

  “… believed to be heading south.” Those were the words that stuck in his mind. He was heading south all right, due south, and now this empty road had suddenly become a trap. No wonder he wasn’t being followed! This road had only two ends—he couldn’t get away! As sure as sin there was a road block ahead; as sure as fate there was another behind him, and it seemed a little silly to be hurrying so fast into the arms of the law.

  Danny slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop. He was afraid to go on. Any moment now that shimmering screen of heat on the road before him might turn into a dust cloud full of police cars. They would move in to take him in daylight most likely, and there was plenty of it left. They would close in from both ends without a chance of missing since the road had no turnoffs and no hiding-places. Danny squinted at the sun-baked terrain all about him: flat, treeless, with no growth at all except the sparse desert brush. No hiding-place for a man, let alone a stolen car. But sometime back he’d caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a dry river off to the east. A river meant a riverbank, and that meant something to use for shelter if it could be reached. It was worth a try, anyway, so he shifted into low and twisted the steering wheel.

  That washboard road he’d been fretting about was velvet compared to no road at all. The wheels spun in the deep dust, the little sedan groaned, shuddered, and then took off across the desert like a skittish mare breaking tether. A plume of dust rose up behind the car, a directing finger for any curious eye, but Danny was still as alone as if creation had just begun.

  The river was a lot closer than he had expected—he had to slam the brakes on quick to keep from racing right over the edge of its ragged ravine. With the brake set, he crawled out cautiously to look about for some more shallow approach. There was no vegetation and no possible way of hiding the sedan except on the river bed, and the road was still in sight if he squinted against the sun. The empty road. The silent road. Danny cocked his head and listened. Silent? That wasn’t the desert drone he heard in the distance, rising, throbbing, coming nearer. For a moment he feared it was a plane and there was no hiding-place at all from a plane, but the sky was innocent of this violation. Now there was no time to worry about the fate of the sedan. Danny reached in and grabbed the gun from the seat and then released the hand brake and let gravity take care of the rest.

  The dust had completely settled by the time the car on the road came into view. Flattened against the wall of the riverbank, Danny peeked over the edge and watched it pass. It was too far away to be sure, but from the length of aerial the sunlight played upon, it sure looked like a police car. He didn’t really breathe until it was out of sight and the last echo of the motor had faded away in the south. For once Lady Luck had been on his shoulder; if only she’d decide to hang around!

  • • •

  As Danny suspected, the road he had taken was blockaded, but so were all the other roads in the area. The state police, local peace officers, ranchers, and townspeople all joined in the search for old Charley Gaynor’s killer, because now there was no doubt of it. An innocent man didn’t cut and run no matter what darned fools like Trace Cooper said, and a good man hunt beat riding fence or swapping gossip at the barbershop any day.

  By midafternoon, at about the same time Danny was sliding down that ravine and fixing to follow the river south, Jim Rice stomped into Virgil Keep’s office, hot, tired, and profane. “Goddamit, Virgil, I blew a tire,” he stormed. “Blew a practically new six-ply on a damn chuckhole. I ain’t going to pay for it. I’m putting in a bill and the county can pay for it!”

  “Keep your shirt on,” Virgil said. “What about Danny Ross? See anything of him?”

  “How could I? All I saw was a lot of ruts and dust. Don’t they ever grade roads around here? It’s a wonder I didn’t snap an axle.”

  “Roads aren’t in my department,” Virgil muttered.

  “Well, I guess that’s one thing to be grateful for!”

  If looks could kill Jim Rice’s wife would have been a widow right then. Virgil leaped up from the desk he’d been jockeying all afternoon and swung Jim around to face the large map of the county hanging on the wall. “Look,” he bellowed, thumping the map with a thick forefinger, “look for yourself and see how much chance that kid has of getting away. I’ve got the Junction City police blocking the main road to the south, the Red Rock police to the north and every available state police car covering every road in between. In addition, every deputy on my force is out searching and so is half of Cooperton. Ross can either keep going until he runs into a road block or stay out there until he starves; but he sure as hell can’t get away!”

  “Unless he has help,” Rice murmured.

  Virgil stopped tapping the map long enough to pick up that very special connotation. “Who’s going to help him?” he demanded.

  “Who helped him this morning?”

  “You think Trace-”

  “Where is he?” Rice asked. “I stopped by his place on my way in, thinking I’d use his phone to call home. He ain’t there. That big nigger ain’t there. Not a living thing on Trace’s place but that pack of mongrel dogs he keeps.”

  “He’s probably out looking for Danny.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Jim grinned. “Only maybe Trace knows where to look.”

  It didn’t take an old lady with a Ouija board to see that Jim Rice wasn’t very fond of Trace, and Virgil knew why. Jim and Trace had been kids together, one a rich man’s son and the other as poor as patches, and Jim would be less than human not to enjoy seeing that spoiled brat brought to heel. But maybe there was more to it than that. “Wait a minute,” Virgil called as Jim eased off toward the door. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  Jim frowned. “Well?”

  “I hear you had dinner at the Pioneer Hotel night before last.”

  “That’s right. Me and a cattle buyer from Red Rock.”

  “Francy Allen wait on your table by any chance?”

  “Francy?” The red began to creep up around Jim’s ears. “Francy quit working at the Pioneer long ago. You know that. Hell, it was your idea!”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Virgil corrected. “It’s just my job to enforce the law. Francy was seen at your table the other night just the same. Maybe she was just helping you entertain that cattle buyer.”

  “She was tight. Can I help it if a woman drinks too much and hangs around my table?”

  Jim Rice’s voice had a way of getting higher and higher the more excited he became. “Then you didn’t see her later?” Virgil asked, and in a near soprano Jim squeaked,

  “See her later? Virgil, I’m a married man!”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Did you see Francy Allen after you left the hotel, yes or no?”

  “Of course not!”

  There was about thirty seconds of silence after Jim’s denial and then a crash. A crash and a splintering of glass that whirled both men about to face the hall door. There they found Ada, her bright, brown eyes fixed on Jim’s face and a little empty space between her hands where the canning jar had been. “Oh,” she murmured. “I dropped it!”

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Virgil stormed. “Can’t you make a big enough mess in the kitchen without wrecking my office, too?”

  “It’s water
melon preserve,” Ada said. “I heard Jim’s voice and remembered how much Ethel liked my watermelon preserve—”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, clean it up!”

  Virgil turned around to continue his interrogation, but by this time Jim’s back was disappearing through the doorway to the street. It was probably just as well. One problem at a time, Virgil figured, and right now the problem was Danny Ross. He studied the map again and tried to reassure himself. No, it couldn’t be; no one could escape a net that tight. The mountains were full of trails and ranch roads, but the only two routes open to the south were bottled up tight. And the kid was heading south. Why else had he carried a Spanish dictionary?

  But Jim Rice’s accusation stuck in Virgil’s mind. It wasn’t like Trace to meddle the way he’d been doing all day unless he had a good reason for thinking Danny innocent. A real good reason-

  • • •

  When it began to turn dusk, Danny crawled up out of the river bed and tried to get his bearings. The sunset had left a dull red glow behind the ragged shadow of the western range, and a come-early moon in the east was getting a jump on the darkness. Moonlight was something Danny could appreciate under certain circumstances and with suitable company, but tonight he wanted darkness, black darkness with nothing but the stars to guide him. Stumbling along in that dusty river bottom all afternoon had given him time to make plans. He’d made quite a study of that road map that had gone over the side with the jalopy and remembered every town all the way down to the border. Junction City was about a hundred miles, maybe more, maybe less, below Cooperton, and he must have driven almost that far before dumping the sheriff’s sedan. How far he had walked was something else again. Three or four miles at most with time out for an occasional cigarette from that dwindling pack Trace Cooper had tossed him in the cell. A few wilted cigarettes, part of a pack of matches, and a loaded gun—that was the extent of Danny’s possessions. That and his plan.