The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  It sank in a front forward position. A thin spurt of water came through the hole in the window, and then more water began to seep around the engine block and through the window and door frames. At twenty feet the car touched bottom, with its forward part sinking into the silt. Brian knew that in two or three minutes enough water would have filled the body to equalize the pressure. Then the door could be pushed open, and he could swim to the surface.

  The man with the gun would be waiting. He would have stopped by the broken guardrail and would be standing at the water’s edge with the gun ready to fire when Brian surfaced.

  Chapter Seven

  A thin spurting stream spewed through the bullet hole in the window. The rush of water increased. Shivering as it lapped around his waist, Brian considered the alternatives of being shot or drowning. The pressure had now equalized, and the door could be pushed open. He could pop to the surface with two or three easy strokes.

  The man with the gun would be on the causeway.

  Brian swung the seat forward and climbed with difficulty into the rear of the car. The car’s nose, stuck in silt, caused the vehicle to tilt at a forty-five degree angle. He squatted in the rear seat and poked his head upward toward the roof near the rear window.

  The water murmured around his torso, rose up his arms and reached for his shoulders. He craned his neck toward the ceiling and his hands clawed at the roof. Panic gorged his throat as rockets hurtled toward the sandbags protecting the roof of the bunker, and the dank smell rose around him.

  He cried out but, finally, the water ceased to rise. The air pocket held and he could still breathe. He fought against fear and forced himself to take shallow breaths, while telling himself over and over that it was water—not sand and dirt—and he must stay in the air pocket as long as possible.

  He wanted to scramble for the door, push it open and claw for the surface. But time was the only escape, for the man with the gun would not remain on the causeway forever. Eventually, other cars would travel the narrow road and the Ford would be forced to move. Brian counted slowly and took a short, shallow breath every seven seconds.

  He estimated he had been underwater twelve to fifteen minutes when the air began to foul. He would have to try it and hope that the black man had left feeling sure that his task had been accomplished.

  Taking one last deep breath of the rancid air, Brian ducked under to reach for the door handle. It was stuck. He panicked until it slowly opened, and he was able to kick free from the car and rise to the surface.

  His shoulders rose above the water as he strained upward to gulp for air. He came up facing away from the road, but treading water, he turned. The road was empty. The Ford had left. He swam toward a large drainpipe that ran underneath the roadbed. When he reached it, he found he could stand in waist-deep water and brace himself against the slimy sides.

  The man with the gun might have pulled off the road at the end of the causeway and still be patiently waiting. Brian waded through the pipe to the far end, where he slipped into the water to swim a parallel course to the roadbed. He ducked underwater as occasional cars passed over the causeway. Scrambling ashore by a heavy stand of pines, he stumbled through them and fell to the ground.

  He waited behind the trees until the sun waned across the lake. Once he dozed, with his head cradled on his arms, only to awaken with a start and jerk his head up violently. He got to his feet when the shadows deepened.

  A quarter of a mile beyond the reservoir was the Tallman Country Club. Gordon Cherny lived in a new residential subdivision that abutted the golf course. Brian kept away from the road as he walked in that direction.

  The rear of the homes in Country Club Estates was built adjacent to a line of trees near the fairway. The Chernys were having a cookout. Gordon, wearing an incongruous chef’s hat, stood with a long-handled spatula near a brick barbecue, while the two children splashed in an above-the-ground pool. Helen Cherny sat at the redwood picnic table, a cocktail glass held limply in her hand. She looked toward her husband as he nonchalantly flipped hamburgers.

  The family gathering turned in frozen tableau when Brian stumbled out from the woods. The children’s hands curled over the edge of the pool as they stared at him. Helen spilled her drink across the table, and Gordon rubbed smoke from his eyes and waved his spatula.

  “Glad you could make it for dinner, old buddy. But did you come by sewer?”

  “I had an accident at the reservoir.”

  “Are you all right?” Helen asked.

  “If I could have a drink, towel and change of clothing, in that order?”

  After Helen mixed him a double at the portable bar, Gordon led Brian toward the house. They entered through sliding glass doors off the patio and went into a hall that led to a comfortable study. There was a desk piled high with medical journals under the window, a wall of books and another wall lined with gun cases.

  Brian stood before the shotguns, rifles and handguns. “Quite a collection. I never knew you were such a gun nut.”

  “They’re fun to play with and a damn good investment. Let me show you one I picked up last week.” He unlocked the middle case with a set of keys from his pocket. Taking down a long-barreled six-gun, he hefted it lovingly before handing it to Brian. “A single action Colt .44. One of the first peacemakers ever manufactured in Hartford. Beautiful weapon. I picked it up for a song.”

  Brian picked up a long-barreled revolver. “And this?”

  Gordon smiled. “You don’t know your guns. That’s new vintage.”

  “I’ve seen one like this recently.” He could picture the black man’s hand extending through the window with the gun leveled in his direction. “What is it?”

  “A .22. Not much wallop, but accurate as hell for a handgun. It’s the type of thing you might use for competition shooting.”

  Brian twirled the cylinder and smelled the barrel. “Smells like it’s been fired recently.”

  Gordon extracted the cylinder and looked down the barrel. “Christ. I forgot to clean the damn thing.” He placed the gun carefully on a piece of felt on the desk. “There’s a shower through the door there, and I’ll get you something to wear. Get that slime and those pine needles off you. By the way, you been drinking?”

  “No. I’ll tell you about it after I shower.”

  Brian luxuriated under the shower, lathering and then standing under the sharp needle spray as fatigue washed away. He kept his mind a blank, promising himself that he would consider his problems in a few minutes when dressed and sitting back in one of Gordon’s recliners.

  The door opened with a bang against the wall. Brian fell back against the tiles with both hands held protectively in front of his body.

  “The clothes are on the hamper,” Gordon said as the door closed.

  Brian adjusted the recliner to a comfortable position and sipped a drink, while Gordon methodically cleaned the pistol. Running a final patch through the barrel before squinting through it and then reassembling the weapon, Gordon said, “Want to tell me what’s going on, old buddy?”

  “Someone took a couple of shots at me, and I had to drive the car into the lake.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No. I did see that he was a hell of a big black guy who wore wraparound sunglasses with mirrors.”

  “I better call Willie.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” Brian walked over to the still-open gun case. “I’d like to borrow one of these.”

  “If you’re picked up with a handgun, you’ll be in more trouble than you are now.”

  “Do you have one I could carry that’s not registered?”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Next time, there might not be a convenient reservoir.”

  Gordon took a small flat automatic from the case. “It’s a .25 caliber Baretta. It’ll fit right in your pocket. I suppose you want it loaded?”

  “It helps.”

  Gordon found a box of the proper sized ammuniti
on in a drawer below the case and filled the clip of the small gun. “This thing is about as accurate as a slingshot.”

  Brian activated the slide to pump a shell into the chamber, flipped on the safety and slipped it in his pocket. “Lockwood’s dead.”

  “I heard. The M.E. called me this afternoon. It seems that they found traces of a sedative in his blood and wanted to know if I had prescribed it for him.”

  “Had you?”

  “Nope. Of course, he could have picked it up from somebody else.”

  “I never knew him to take an aspirin, much less a sedative.”

  “People develop twinges when they get older.”

  “Jesus, Gordon. I feel like I’ve returned to a never-never land.”

  “Let me give you a shot and stash you away in the guest room.”

  “It could be dangerous for you. Do you know that I went to talk to Martha Rubinow, and Harry threw down on me with a shotgun?”

  “I thought Harry only did that when someone tried to cut him out of a real-estate deal.”

  “Martha killed my mother.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Brian! Martha may be married to the most rapacious scoundrel this side of Scrooge, but she didn’t do anything to Mary. It could have been any of a dozen people. Listen, if it makes you feel any better at all, the diagnosis was more than correct. The cancer had spread throughout her system. The autopsy proved that.”

  “I’m sorry the autopsy was necessary.”

  “Practically routine in a case like hers. In the long run it might help. Clinton Robinson has asked me for a deposition regarding her exact condition at the time of expiration. She was a very sick lady. Your mother, who had only been in the hospital once before—for a hysterectomy—was riddled with death.”

  “I never knew she had a hysterectomy.”

  “I noticed the clips during the post and checked back in the chart. My father performed the operation in ’43.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “What difference does it make …” Gordon’s voice trailed off as a deep flush rose from his neck. “It’s not important.”

  “Forty-three would be impossible.”

  Gordon sipped his drink. “Back in those days they used to extract tonsils, appendixes and ladies’ plumbing like there was no tomorrow. Pop used to say that a new car every year was either ten tonsillectomies, five appendectomies or four hysterectomies.”

  “I was born in 1944.”

  “Maybe it was ’45.”

  “Where are the records?”

  “Part of the chart at the hospital.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “Hey, come on. I want to finish my drink and we’ve got steaks working.”

  “Now, Gordon. Right now! Bring your drink with you.”

  Gordon left him in the deserted doctors’ lounge while he went to Medical Records for Mary’s chart. Brian felt fatigue embrace him as the effects of the shower evaporated. He had once read that feeling deep lethargy could be caused by extreme depression; but God only knows, he had been through enough today.

  A resonant voice echoed through the small room. “This is for doctors only. You have to leave.” The large frame of a black orderly pushing a mop bucket filled the door.

  Brian jumped from the couch as his hand fumbled for the small automatic. He aimed the gun and thumbed off the safety. “Get back.”

  “What’s wrong with you, man? Put that gun away. I don’t have the keys to the drug cabinet.”

  “Take another step and I’ll fire.”

  The large man stepped back, holding the mop across his body as if it were a protective shield.

  “What in hell’s going on here?” Gordon’s authoritative voice startled them. “Put that damn thing away. Better yet, give it back to me.”

  “I think that’s the guy who shot at me.”

  “Give me the gun, Brian.”

  “I can’t.”

  Gordon turned toward the orderly. “It’s all right, Mr. Stewart. I can handle the situation.”

  “Crazy as a fuckin’ loon,” the orderly said, as he pulled the mop bucket into the hall and slammed the door.

  “You’re out on your feet. I’m going to give you something.” Gordon raised a hypodermic needle and gently pushed the lever until a few drops dribbled from the tip.

  “Let me see that chart.” Brian slipped the gun back in his pocket and took the bulky folder. “And put that needle away.” He began at the rear of the chart to read Gordon’s father’s notes of more than forty years ago. The first entry was a routine physical examination of the adolescent Mary, and then a broken wrist during her high school days. The next entry was her admission, in 1943, for a complete hysterectomy. He checked the surrounding documents to verify that they were in proper chronological order and no clerical error had been made in dating. He slowly closed the chart and placed it aside. “She was away from here those years, I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not unusual for a patient to return home to see a family doctor they feel they can trust.”

  “Nineteen forty-three was the year before I was born.”

  “Perhaps you’ve discovered something you weren’t meant to.”

  “You knew.”

  “No, honest. I mean, I must have seen the entry, but I never put it together as far as you are concerned.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “I don’t know. It might. If there’s anyone in town that would know, it’s Martha Rubinow.”

  “I thought you weren’t exactly welcome there?”

  “I’ll make myself welcome. Let’s go.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  They sat in Gordon’s car in the Rubinow driveway and looked toward the dark house.

  “Harry’s Caddy’s gone,” Gordon said.

  Brian left the car to press the front doorbell. Chimes reverberated through the quiet interior. He rang again and again, until the chimes merged into discordant noise.

  “Let’s go home,” Gordon yelled from the car.

  Without answering, Brian went to the side door and picked up a metal milk box. He crashed the box’s corner against a lower window-pane until it shattered. He pushed the remaining slivers into the kitchen before reaching through to unlock the door.

  “That’s called breaking and entering,” Gordon said behind him.

  “Come on.”

  They walked through the deserted rooms. The house was in perfect order, with the exception of the master bedroom. Dresser drawers had been pulled open in haphazard disarray and the closet was nearly empty. A suitcase lay open on its side in a corner.

  “Either they’ve been ripped off or were in one hell of a hurry,” Gordon said. “Let’s call Joe Vital.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Harry’s manager at the real estate office. If they’ve taken off, Joe will know where.” He flipped through the Tallman phone directory from under the night table and then dialed. He spoke for a few moments before hanging up and turning with a puzzled frown. “Joe says Harry and Martha decided to take a cross-country trip. He has no idea where they’re going or when they’ll be back, only that Harry will check in with him from time to time.”

  “They couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour or two. Let me use your car.”

  “You’ll never find them.”

  “I’ll sure in hell try.”

  As Brian started for the door, he felt a strong grip on his arm and turned to see Gordon jab a hypodermic needle into his arm. He tore away and fumbled in his pocket for the automatic as the needle wrenched free and fell:

  “You’re punchy, old buddy, and shouldn’t be going anywhere, except to bed.”

  Brian had the gun in his hand as he stumbled back against the wall, his fingers trying to find the safety.

  Gordon, fading into the distance as Brian’s legs melted, said, “This is getting to be a nasty habit.”

  “Have to find them. Have to …
” He felt himself slide into darkness and barely saw Gordon remove the pistol from his hand.

  “Doctor Cherny’s about ready to have you committed.” Clinton’s feet were on the desk, and he scowled at Brian from under bushy eyebrows. “He called me at home after he knocked you out to fill me in: breaking and entering, possession of a handgun, assault on a hospital employee … you are a self-destructive young fellow, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure that he believed what happened to me out at the reservoir.”

  “He says it was quite apparent you’d been in some water with your clothes on. If you got that gun back, I’ll take it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I refuse to represent you if you persist in illegal acts.”

  “I’m not going to be without protection.”

  “I want that gun. Now!”

  Brian knew he had to rest his faith in someone and reluctantly slid the small automatic across the desk. As Clinton gingerly picked it up and locked it in the center desk drawer, Brian said, “If I get killed, I’m suing for malpractice. You wouldn’t happen to have a drink?”

  “Anything you want as long as it’s rye.” Clinton’s feet thumped to the floor as he tugged at the bottom desk drawer. He pulled out an unopened and dusty bottle of rye and plunked it on the edge of the desk. “This do?”

  “Fine.” Brian twisted off the cap and drank directly from the neck. When he lowered the bottle, he saw the attorney observing him closely.

  “Mary told me that she thought you were drinking more than you should. The last thing in the world a man with your problems needs are befuddled senses.”

  “I don’t need the lecture.”

  “You’re not going to get one. I’ll send letters from time to time regarding the status of the estate.”

  “What about my other problems?”

  “As you say, they’re your problems.”

  “One drink turns you off?”

  “I don’t think you’re in control of it.” He extracted a large checkbook from the bottom of a pile of documents and flipped through the pages. “I’m giving you a check for five thousand against the proceeds of your inheritance. As an officer of the court, I can’t recommend where I think you should go, but you can use your imagination.” He scrawled his signature, ripped it from the book and slid it toward Brian.