The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  “How long have you been here, Mrs. Wright?”

  She bent toward a dandelion. “Oh, a long time. Most of my life, I suppose. I do like dandelions, don’t you? Some say they are weeds, but they are such a persistent flower and so yellow.”

  “You’ve been here since the forties?”

  She stopped pensively. “The forties? I would think so. Not always here. There was another place in Hartford, but I like it here much better. Look, you can see the mountains.” They both turned toward the green hills of the Berkshires. “In the winter the snow is lovely.”

  “Can I help with the flowers?”

  She turned with tilted head. Brian realized that time had stopped for her a good many years before. “The other doctors never asked.” She laughed, and again the air tinkled. “Of course you can.”

  They walked the meadow together, occasionally stopping to pick a wildflower. She would signal by lightly plucking his sleeve, and he would stoop to gather a flower or sprig. “You lived in Bellchamp,” he finally said.

  She stopped to look toward distant hills. She pronounced the word slowly: “Bellchamp. Yes, I lived there. It was very beautiful. A good deal like here, except, of course, we had the lake.”

  “And you picked flowers for the parties and the table.”

  She turned with delight. “You know about the parties. You must have been there. Oh, the men were so handsome in their uniforms.”

  “And your child would watch from an upstairs landing.”

  “Yes. He would often look through the banister when we had a party. Sometimes I would see him there, but I wouldn’t say anything for a while. Then I’d go up and carry the sleepyhead to bed. He was …” Her words died. “My baby is dead.” She turned away.

  Brian watched as she walked across the field alone, and he remembered. He remembered holding to the railing and peering out at swirling couples below … and then someone lifting and carrying him down the long hall. And yet the blood types didn’t match. His possible heritage was vehemently denied by the Colonel. Still, he remembered. He caught her arm. “Do you recall Captain Ralston?”

  “He killed my baby, you know. They say he was a very evil man. That’s why I’m being punished. But you know all that. They always write down what I say on those pads. They know all about Captain Ralston and how bad I was.”

  “How bad was that?” Brian’s voice was low and almost inaudible as a light breeze crossed the meadow.

  “I don’t wish to discuss it anymore. I must finish now. It’s my job to gather the flowers.”

  He held her arm so tightly that she winced. “I must know. Please.”

  “Then ask that man.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who smiles all the time.”

  Clouds peaked the hills and a chilling breeze cut across the field. Brian felt a burning sensation in his eyes. Feelings he had subliminated for the last several days thrust forward unbidden. “Tell me about Captain Ralston.”

  “He was a very good-looking man, but evil men always are.”

  “How do you know he was so evil?”

  She looked at him with a childlike expression that was in strange apposition to the lines on her face. “Why, he killed my baby and this is my punishment. I must go now. They get angry if I’m late with the flowers.” She turned to stride toward the nearest building.

  Brian watched her hurry toward her quarters. He wanted to hold her, tell her who he was—in some desperate way make up for the lost years, but that was impossible.

  She disappeared through a low arch and was lost from sight. He stood in the center of the field where she had picked her last flower, and nostalgia was replaced by a burning anger that turned to a deep fury.

  He knew what had happened thirty years ago, just as he knew how those events had destroyed this woman, and Mary, and all the others. The pieces would have to be melded into a whole before the puzzle was complete, and when that was accomplished, a course of action decided upon.

  Standing on the decking above the pier, Brian watched the small lobster boat chug toward the jetty. He assumed it had stopped further up the river at the wholesale market and unloaded its catch, and was now finished for the day. The smiling man tied bow and stern lines before stepping off the boat. He squinted up at Brian in the waning sun as they approached each other at the center of the dock.

  “Not going to find your goddamn daddy around here.” He broke into a huge smile. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “Buy you a drink, Mr. Henry?”

  “That’s an offer I never refused.”

  They sat at a table on the patio of the restaurant on the hill above the marina. Brian watched lines of pleasure craft bobbing softly at their moorings. When drinks were served, Wilton Henry raised his glass in salute.

  “Here’s to you, boy.”

  Brian nodded. “Mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

  “That depends.” He laughed.

  “Last time I saw you, you said that you were at your commanding officer’s house when you met Mary.”

  “Goddamned right.”

  “His name was Wright. Colonel Wright.”

  “Right again. The rotten son of a bitch. He about had my ass shot off for good that last time.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I was orderly to the little bastard, and one day me and his aide got caught in a mortar burst and were sent stateside. Hell, I figured it was a million-dollar wound that would take me out of it for the duration.”

  “The Colonel’s aide that was hit with you, that was Captain Ralston, and you both went to stay at Bellchamp.”

  “You got it, son. They had me on TDY up at that place, and I figured that was all she wrote.”

  “That’s when you met Mary?”

  “This couple that worked there introduced me.”

  “Martha Rubinow.”

  “That’s it.”

  “How did the Colonel almost get you killed?”

  “He came home to Bellchamp, see. Got himself in hot water over some prisoners getting killed, and they sent him back. Anyway, I felt I owed him one, and I did what I thought was a favor. The little fink got mad as hell and worked it so’s I found my ass sitting in the Pacific. Not only sitting there, but as a damn pathfinder for the invasion of Japan.”

  “What’s a pathfinder?”

  “Dead men. Pathfinders jump on the drop zone before the rest of the paratroopers come down. We mark the zone with lights and smoke. We were scheduled to jump right the fuck into the center of the plains of Japan. We all knew we’d never get back. Then they dropped the A-bomb, and that was all she wrote.”

  “What was the favor that turned the Colonel against you?”

  “I should have known better, but hell, we’d been overseas together and I figured he was getting a raw deal. Weren’t for that, I’da kept my mouth shut.”

  “About what?”

  “About his wife and the captain.”

  A strong wind from the sea pushed a mass of black, ominous clouds toward the shore. The obscured sun cast shadows of gray over the patio. Brian stared into his drink before continuing. “Exactly what happened? What did you see?”

  Wilton tilted his empty glass, and Brian motioned to the waitress to serve another. He continued after a fresh drink had arrived. “When I got back to the States the first time, I went to the fucking house like the Colonel said. The captain was …”

  “Captain Ralston?”

  “Right. He’d been hit same time as me and sent home, only he didn’t have no home. So the Colonel said we should stay at Bellchamp. No reason why not, the house was big as hell … only the captain had lived with lots of people overseas and didn’t like all that space. He wanted to be roommates with Mrs. Wright.”

  “And you saw it?”

  “Hell, a blind man could have. They were screwing all over the goddamn place. Once I practically fell over them out in the woods.”

  “The Colonel came home, you told him, and all hell broke lo
ose.”

  “Colonel beat the living shit out of the captain with a goddamn swagger stick. I was holding the poor guy, but it made me so sick I turned and left.”

  “This never came out in the trial after the kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping happened a couple of years after that. Ralston had been long gone, discharged from the service.”

  “Yet you think the Colonel got you sent to the Pacific?”

  “Hell, yes.” He smiled again. “Know so. Some men just don’t want to know the truth, and the guy that tells them gets on their list.”

  Brian ordered the smiling man another drink and thought about long-ago events and one piece that still didn’t fit. He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder and looked into Wilton’s serious face.

  “You know, son, I wasn’t always like this. I mean, all the cussin’ and drinking and not-giving-a-damn attitude. After me and Mary broke up, I didn’t seem to care anymore. And well, what I’m trying to say is, she was a fine woman. A damn fine woman, the best I ever knew.”

  Brian parked on the grass by the border and walked toward the graves of what had once been his family. The Dwights had lived in Tallman for several generations and the earlier headstones were worn to the point of near illegibility. The two new stones set side by side seemed almost obscene in their new veneer. He sat on the grass near them and leaned against a tree.

  Mary Dwight, as she always had, watched over Lockwood.

  “He said you were a fine person, mother.”

  Brian fought a wave of bitterness. It wasn’t her fault, she had tried to tell him on that last day. His sense of identity seemed as obscure as before. He had followed the leads to Bellchamp, and had been sure that he and the Colonel were … but the Colonel had the evidence of the blood types and the fact that a small child had been discovered buried near Bellchamp.

  How were Lockwood and Mary involved in all that happened? Why did the Colonel have such a ruthless interest in his destruction?

  He stood and brushed new-mown grass from his trousers. It was time to go to Jan’s. He gave a salute toward Lockwood’s grave. “Poor bastard. It wasn’t much of a life for you. Never married, never held a job, and now you’re dead.” He turned toward the car.

  But Lockwood had held a job, Brian suddenly recalled.

  Lockwood had worked right here at St. James. For a brief period during the war, Lockwood had worked on these very grounds. He had bragged about it to Brian several times.

  Brian began to walk the lines of headstones. It wasn’t a large cemetery, and he was unconcerned with the older graves predating his point of interest. Within twenty minutes he found the one he was looking for. He stopped before a small marble angel nestled near a towering family monument and read the inscription:

  Roger Stalsworth

  Age Two Years

  1944–1946

  He ran for the car.

  “Where the hell are you?” Clinton was still in an ominous black mood.

  “At Jan’s place. It seemed as safe as any.”

  “I told you to come back to the motel before you got in any further difficulty. You can’t possibly imagine the mess I’ve been in trying to unravel what you’ve caused: conferences with the Massachusetts State Police, who, by the way, have got a pick-up order down in New York for that fellow Buxton. The New York police have staked out the Colonel’s place. What have you been up to?”

  “Captain Ralston and Mrs. Wright were having an affair. The Colonel found out about it and …”

  “Kidnapped his own child?”

  “It didn’t happen quite that way.”

  “Listen, and listen carefully, because I’m charging you three arms and a leg for this advice. Stay put. Do not pass go. Do not do anything. Do not leave the house. Do not speculate further.”

  “What about arresting the Colonel?”

  “At the moment, we have about as much chance of that as arresting the President of the United States.”

  “That was almost done once.”

  “There’s no objective evidence against him. For now, it’s your word against his. When we find Buxton and nail him for the Rubinow killings, maybe we can get the Colonel on a conspiracy charge.”

  “I think I know what happened.”

  “You thought that yesterday and almost got yourself killed. I need you tomorrow for a deposition with the Massachusetts people. We’ve got things screwed up enough without any further complications. Stay put! Understand? Don’t move from there until I see you in the morning.” The connection was abruptly severed. Brian slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  Jan was curled on the couch with her legs tucked under her. She wore a terry-cloth robe and her hair was loose—it made her appear younger.

  “I think I know what happened thirty years ago at Bellchamp,” Brian said.

  “Clinton didn’t seem very interested.”

  “He’s mad as hell, but I’ll get through to him in the morning when I have further verification.”

  “I don’t understand. Unless the Colonel’s lying about his blood type, you couldn’t be the Wright baby.”

  “I don’t think he lied, at least about the blood type. It’s too easy to verify from his service records.”

  “Then you aren’t a Wright?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He identified the body.”

  “He identified a badly decomposed body of a small child, recognizable only by its clothing. The small-town doctor who was the medical examiner up there listed the cause of death as a head wound and didn’t bother with an autopsy. The Colonel insisted on immediate cremation.”

  “Now you really are confusing me. That would mean there was another body … but whose?”

  “Roger Stalsworth, who died here in Tallman. He was nearly the same age as the kidnapped child.”

  “How in the world can you prove that?”

  “I need to borrow a few things: a spade, flashlight and crowbar, if you have one.”

  “I don’t have a crowbar, but the shovel and … Brian, you aren’t going to do what I think you are?”

  “During World War II help was hard to get, so even Lockwood had a job. At St. James cemetery.”

  “The Rubinows were accomplices in the kidnapping and, with the help of Lockwood, switched the dead child with the Wright baby. And Mary somehow ended up with you.”

  “Accidentally. The Rubinows worked for Colonel Wright, and whoever set up the kidnapping probably wanted the child killed. At the last moment Martha wasn’t up to murder. They talked Lockwood into helping them. Mary found out what happened, but was forced into a position of not being able to tell anyone without jeopardizing Lockwood. It would have meant his execution.”

  “I want a drink,” Jan said abruptly and left the couch for the kitchen. She returned in a few moments with glasses and a bottle of cognac. She poured a large drink and handed it to him. “Let’s drop it. There’s nothing to be gained. The hell with it.” She drained her drink.

  “It’s almost over.”

  “Make it all over. Now!” She put her glass on the coffee table and wound her arms around his neck. “Please.” Her voice was low and whispery. “I’m frightened. Let’s go somewhere away from here.” She pressed against him. “Please.”

  “I have to find out if I’m right.”

  She broke away from him. “You’re a fool then. It’s not worth it.”

  “Can I borrow those things?”

  A heavy cloud formation had moved across the Tallman sky and spasmodically obscured a half-moon. Brian circled the cemetery and parked along a residential street that ran behind the burial sites. Carrying the shovel and flashlight, he climbed a low fence and walked toward the child’s grave.

  With the cutting edge of the spade, he levered out even squares of sod in rectangular shapes.

  When the squares of grass were placed neatly to the side for eventual replacement, he began to dig in earnest. The hole was waist deep when t
he shovel clanged against the lid of the concrete vault. He dug carefully until the outline of the vault was fully exposed, and then bent to brush the remaining dirt away with his hands. Straddling the vault lid, he bent and inserted his fingers under the edge and slowly lifted the concrete slab off the rim and placed it by the side of the grave.

  He took the flashlight from his back pocket and flipped the switch. The beam jutted into the empty vault. The coffin was gone.

  Brian’s shoulders shook as he buried his head on his arms by the side of the grave.

  “Crouch in the hole,” the low, guttural voice from above him said.

  Brian swiveled the flashlight until the tilted beam caught the bulk of the man pointing the gun at him. “Buxton!”

  “You heard me, boy. Scrunch down.” The voice was low but commanding. Buxton glanced sideways and kicked a clump of sod. “Neat job. Hand me the shovel, I’ll be needing it. Easy now, nice and easy.” Buxton leaned down and extended one arm, while the other aligned the revolver toward Brian’s head.

  Brian automatically handed the spade to the man by the grave, then stepped into the vault and began to sink to the flooring. It was a cool place with narrow sides, and he found it difficult to breathe. The smell assailed him. The smell of rotten things, a dank smell that he knew so well. His body convulsed as spasms rocked through him.

  One time, long ago, hands had grasped his kicking limbs and restricted his pummeling fists. Something had been placed over his head as he had been carried down a ladder and placed in the narrow thing with the dank smell. The dream had filled his nights with nightmarish screams, and now he knew what they had placed him in, and where it had come from.

  The coffin that had carried him as a child had been taken from this very grave. He knew the dank smell as part of his being. Buxton extended his arm in careful aim.

  A thousand nights of terror propelled Brian as he hurled himself upward out of the grave. Two thunks of the exploding gun drove bullets into him as his shoulders caught Buxton at the knees and knocked him backward.

  Brian’s choking cry echoed in the night as his hands grasped for the gun. He lay on Buxton as the larger man threw himself to the side in a vain attempt to break Brian’s grip. Brian held the gun and felt quick spasms as it erupted in his hand again and again.