The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  He turned into a rutted road and drove for two miles before veering off on an ancient logging trail. The car jounced over the narrow way for a quarter of a mile before it widened sufficiently for him to pull off and park. “Almost there.” He led her by the hand along an overgrown trail until they came to a small rushing river. Further along the river bank, the stream widened where a beaver dam eddied the water into a circular pool. Hanging strands from a willow tree brushed the surface of the water, and a gently rising hummock rose from the water’s edge to enfold the base of the tree.

  “It’s a lovely place,” she said.

  Brian put the food and wine on the grass and leaned back against the tree trunk. Jan stood at the lip of the water to stare down into the reflection of the willow and scudding clouds.

  “I’d like to swim. Promise you’ll close your eyes?”

  “Promise.” He put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He heard a faint slithering of clothing zippers followed by a splash. When he sat up, he saw her in the center of the pool, treading water with easy strokes. He began to unbutton his shirt.

  “Hey, you know something?”

  She turned to face him with a smile. “What?”

  “The water’s clear as glass to the bottom.”

  She laughed as he arched into the water.

  They lay back on the grass under the tree after having made love. Brian bent over and kissed her lightly as she ran her fingers over his face. “Your mother said you’d grown a beard. I think I’d like you with a beard.”

  He kissed her again. “I’ll never shave again.”

  “Know something? I’m still hungry.”

  They opened wine and ate chunks of turkey breast and sliced roast beef on pumpernickel bread.

  When they left, Brian drove and Jan lay back in the seat with closed eyes, her head nestled against him. He felt slightly guilty that the peace of the afternoon and the warm woman next to him had erased his concerns.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said softly, without opening her eyes.

  “Most anything.”

  “If you go back to Canada tomorrow, I’ll go with you without any commitment on your part. What I mean is, I’ll be your old lady, or whatever the hell they call it nowadays. We’ll take a pup tent and canoe into the Canadian woods and swim in lots of pools.” She stopped for his answer.

  “If you still feel this way in a couple of days.”

  “No couple of days—tomorrow.”

  “I’m not leaving yet.”

  “You’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

  “You may be right.” He checked the rearview mirror again and made a sharp turn. “I think we’re being followed.”

  She turned in the seat to look back as he made another turn. “You could be right. He made the turn, too.”

  “He’s been behind us for the past ten minutes. Let’s see if we can lose him.” The sports car sprang ahead as he floored the accelerator.

  Jan leaned forward with shining eyes and parted lips as she clenched the dashboard in excitement. “Faster, downshift on the turns!”

  The following car stayed a set distance behind as they approached the outskirts of Tallman. Their evasive maneuvers and turns had been unsuccessful in losing the pursuer. On a final impulse, Brian turned up the steep road of Farnsworth Hill. The area was pockmarked with cul-de-sacs and dead-end roads, which might allow them to be temporarily out of sight. When the other car’s headlights were momentarily lost from view, Brian slammed the car into a right-angle turn, made another quick right into the deep shadows of overhanging trees and killed the lights and engine. They sat quietly as the other car continued up the road and was lost from view. In a few minutes it slowly backtracked, sweeping a spotlight over the right of way, and then it was gone.

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “See what I mean? Let’s leave now. Get back to Route 95 and head due north to Canada.”

  “In a few days.”

  “Tonight.”

  He put his finger over her lips and shook his head as they started down the hill toward Ferry Road. “It won’t be long.”

  “I want to pretend. To make believe that the last few years hadn’t happened, that there never was a marriage to Jerry, that Gordon’s still a sarcastic kid in college, and you’ve come back for me.”

  “If a dream is worth anything, it’ll survive two or three days.”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to waiting anymore.”

  “Gordon haunting you?”

  “Lord, no. It’s just that I’m not going to live my life like I did as a kid, always waiting, wondering if he’d come home. Or, when I was married to Jerry, waiting for him to come home, until one day he didn’t. I don’t know that I can sit in Tallman and worry about you.”

  He parked on the road by the house. “My luck will hold.”

  “Will it?” She slipped into the driver’s seat as he got out and threw the car in gear. A squeal of tires quickly took her from sight.

  Feeling a sheen of depression, he watched her leave. The montage of the day’s events clicked by in rapid succession—the cemetery, Lockwood on the cot, the woman in the pool and a persistent following car. He turned toward the house with resignation.

  The headlights of the car parked by the porch flicked on to bracket him in their glare. Car doors slammed, and two men, one in a police uniform, the other in a business suit, walked warily along the edge of light toward him.

  “Lieutenant Brian Maston,” the man in the suit said.

  “Oh, shit,” Brian replied.

  Chapter Five

  Their uncommunicative and noncommittal attitudes reduced him to a nonperson. The marshall on the rear seat by his side studiously looked out the window at darkened homes, while the driver glanced periodically into the rearview mirror, as if he were checking on the security of inanimate cargo.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll be booked in Tallman.”

  He held out his cuffed hands. “These aren’t necessary.”

  The marshall glanced down at the handcuffs. “Regulations.” He looked at Brian with the first sign of interest. “You really do it?”

  “Yes, I deserted.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  Tallman’s police station was a new structure of brick with modernistic features topped by a large pyramid skylight. They parked by a side door and led Brian inside to a small interrogation room. “What happens now?” he asked the business suit.

  “We’ll notify the military police to pick you up. That’s if the state doesn’t put a detainer on you.”

  “That’s really great. How did you guys know I was home?”

  The agent disappeared around a corner without answering and was replaced by a uniformed officer, who led him to another room for fingerprinting and photographs. Brian went through the routine in a dispassionate state, only vaguely hearing a phone ring in the distance. They let him use the phone after he washed the ink from his fingers.

  Clinton Robinson answered with a snort on the seventh ring.

  “They’ve picked me up on the desertion charge.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I tried to get you this afternoon. Information has come my way that the state’s attorney was preparing a warrant. Get a good night’s sleep. I know where you are and will try and have you out in the morning.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Brian said into the dead telephone.

  The patrolman beckoned to him. “This way, Lieutenant Maston.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Say what?”

  They led him to the chief’s office where Willie Dockery sat behind a cleared desk flanked by rows of civic awards. He grasped Brian’s hand warmly. It jolted him to realize that Willie had been a year behind him in school, and at that time was known as “the runt.” His stature had not increased, although his girth had, considerably.
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br />   “Sorry to see you here, Brian. I was at the funeral, you know.”

  “There were so many, Willie. It was hard to recognize everyone.”

  “Yep, there really were. They read you your rights?”

  “Out at the house. I understand the military will get me in the morning.”

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The state of Connecticut gets you first. You’re ours.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Murder. Not that I don’t sympathize. The prosecutor will probably reduce it to manslaughter when you’re bound over.”

  “Who did I kill?”

  “Your mother, of course.”

  The steps of the officers by his side rang in unison as they walked down the polished hallway. They stopped in front of the cell and swung the barred door open. The cop on his right gestured with his thumb as Brian stood motionless before the small detaining cell. It was immaculately clean with polished floor and recently painted walls. The single bunk was made up with starched sheets and had two neatly folded blankets at the foot. But Brian was unable to move from the corridor.

  “Inside, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll wait in the interrogation room, my attorney will be …”

  “I don’t believe we offered you a choice, sir. We’ll come get you as soon as he arrives.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in the officer’s voice.

  “I’ll wait in the hall.”

  “Inside, buster.” They grabbed his arms and shoved him inside and locked the door: He heard their intermittent laughter as they retreated down the hall.

  Light from the hall cast a glow across part of the narrow cell. He sat on the edge of the bunk with his head in his hands, trying to ward off his claustrophobia.

  It came as he knew it would.

  First, the cold musty smell that made him shiver and hold his arms tightly against his body. He stretched out on the bunk and pulled a blanket across his body. The cold permeated his very being. He stared into the blackness overhead and felt the walls begin to move slowly toward him. It was an irrational fear. He must hold to the roots of reality to keep his sense of place and time intact. He knew where he was and what was happening, and yet the walls still moved closer. He concentrated on the earlier part of the day. He thought of Jan’s long, smooth body arching into the clear water. He looked up toward the overhanging willow tree and beyond to the sky.

  The thoughts dissipated in overwhelming fear, and he jackknifed from the bunk to grasp the cool metal of the door bars. “Somebody! Somebody come here! Come get me!”

  The corridor door opened, and footsteps came down the hall until an older officer stood before him with a scowl. “I got the dispatch tonight, Maston, and I’m busy. What is it?”

  “Get me out of here!” He peered at the name tag on the police officer’s breast. “Officer Martin, I have to get out of here.”

  “Nothing I can do about that until we release you to the county jail in the morning.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Mister, you’re in the goddamn slammer. For the present, your word means duck butter.” He turned and left.

  Brian clenched the bars as he yelled down the corridor.

  An hour later, the cell was a shambles. He huddled in the corner with low moans as Gordon Cherny was admitted to the cell. He stood over Brian with his bag held loosely in one hand.

  “He’s flipped out, Doc Cherny. Mad as a hatter.”

  Gordon spoke in a low voice as he knelt and felt for a pulse. “What’s the matter, old buddy?”

  With a lunge, Brian was off the floor and through the cell door. He careened off a man in the hallway and ran down the corridor to wrench at the locked door. He began to pound on the wire-enforced glass.

  “Grab him!” yelled a voice behind him. He was grasped by strong arms and pushed face down against the tile wall. A hypodermic needle penetrated the flesh by his bicep. They turned him as he sagged toward the floor. He lay on the floor, his eyes going out of focus as Gordon’s hand rested against his forehead.

  “You aren’t going anywhere, old buddy. Not anywhere at all.”

  He awoke with a start to see the bars. His body stiffened as a hand shook his shoulder. “Your lawyer’s here.”

  An officer’s hand grasped his elbow as he swung stiffly out the door and down the hall, toward a small room containing a table and two chairs. Clinton Robinson puffed on a cigar and overflowed the chair as he gestured toward Brian.

  “I can’t make it in here, Clinton. I went berserk last night and Gordon had to give me a shot.”

  “Heard about that.” He opened a cracked briefcase, rummaged through it for a moment and finally extracted several legal forms, which he shoved across the table. “Sign.”

  “What are they?”

  “Under the circumstances, the prosecutor has agreed to release you on your own recognizance on the manslaughter charge.”

  “Then it’s not murder?”

  “Manslaughter’s bad enough. Sign.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Property pledges for the federal people. Federal attorney down in New Haven happens to be a former law clerk of mine. He’s agreed to honor my writ for your release pending a hearing. Now sign, and let’s get over to my office.”

  They walked across the green to the office, where coffee was waiting for Brian and Clinton answered two phone messages. Brian waited until the secretary left the office and the phone calls were complete before carefully putting down the coffee cup and leaning toward Clinton.

  “I think I know the rest of the scenario.”

  Clinton stopped rummaging through the stack of folders. He saw Brian’s anger and leaned back in his chair. “Good. That will save me a good deal of time.”

  “I’ve begun to put things together.”

  “I’d say it’s about time.”

  “And it all adds up. Someone cut my mother’s life short, and the same person is panting to get me out of Tallman. The same individual turned me in to the authorities, and now that goddamn someone is going to advise me, for my own good, to get the hell back to Canada.”

  “I think that’s called jumping bail.”

  “Shall I continue?”

  “You’re paying for the time.”

  “And the only person in this town who could possibly benefit by that sequence of events is you, counselor.”

  “My fees will be adequate.”

  “I imagine they already have been. How much have you milked from my mother’s estate? As a matter of curiosity, is there anything left?”

  Clinton Robinson’s smile caused one eyebrow to rise high above the other. “All those deeds, trust agreements and stock certificates are in my vault.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a nonexistent vault.”

  “The safe is quite real.”

  “You made your mistake in telling me the size of the estate. I might have never known. Or would I? There are probably ways to track down the assets and how they were they were disposed of.”

  “Complaints of this nature are usually made to the district probate judge.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Me.”

  “Jesus, you’ve got a real lock.”

  “Absolutely. Although the truth of the matter is that I haven’t raped any estates in weeks and weeks.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “If I were to take the time, and had the inclination, I could develop an intense dislike for you, my boy. It has also occurred to me that the strange gods of life, had they moved in slightly different directions, could have made you my son. That is a possibility I do not care to dwell on.” He moved to the door in a lithe movement that startled Brian. “Come on!” He yelled out the door. “Margaret. Open the vault, Margaret.”

  The safe was a large concrete box affair in the cellar of the building. It had a heavy steel door, and the interior was lined with file cabinets.

 
“You know I can’t go in there.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll never know.”

  “You bastard! What kind of game are you playing?”

  Clinton Robinson looked at him for a long moment before yelling for Margaret. “Get the whole Maston file and bring it to my office.”

  Half an hour of checking property deeds, bonds and stock certificates proved that Clinton’s estimate had been incorrect—it had been fifty thousand too low. The last debit from the estate had been the establishment of Lockwood’s trust. Brian closed the last of the folders and looked sheepishly toward the scowling attorney. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “You deserve my apology. I lost my temper and wanted you to verify every last deed and certificate in the vault … neglecting your problem with confined places.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I counted. It’s all there.”

  “Fine, no further chastisement is necessary, as my fees will reflect the situation accordingly.”

  Brian smiled. “I thought they might.”

  Clinton tented his fingers and examined the ceiling. “Your exhibition of last night could be useful.”

  “Temporary insanity? No way.”

  “You have a better defense?”

  “Yes. I didn’t do it.”

  “Then someone else did. Care to speculate?”

  “The same person who turned me in. Any idea who called the authorities?”

  “A confidential, anonymous tipster.”

  “Male or female?”

  “They won’t even reveal the gender.”

  “Martha, Jan, Gordon or yourself. Who else knows the situation?”

  “You’re doing the speculating.”

  “It would require motive. Since you evidently haven’t milked the estate, that rules you out.”

  “Nice of you to say that.”

  “God only knows, I can’t see any possible motive for Gordon or Martha.”

  “Jan works at the hospital and would know those details. Did she know about your army difficulties?”

  “I told her myself. You know her husband was killed in ’Nam.”

  “Then again, hospitals are like most other institutions—fertile with gossip. Any number of people could have called about your mother; then, when they began to investigate and looked into your background …” The chair creaked forward as the search for a legal pad began. “Let’s get all the details.”