HIGHWAY HOMICIDE

by Bill WENHAM

  Once again he was thankful for the old leather gloves that he’d found. He reached up and brushed his gloved hands over the face of the sign. The bulk of the snow dropped away immediately, revealing the highway information underneath.

  It was only important to someone like himself, a stranger to the area. All the locals knew exactly where they were and what roads they were on. He recalled a visit he’d made to Barbados once. Some of the local people there turned all the road signs around. Consequently, any visitors hiring their own cars to drive instead of using the local taxis got themselves hopelessly lost. He, himself, had driven for forty five minutes, only to find himself right back where he’d started.

  In Vermont, as in any other State, visitors perhaps would know the Interstates, but unless they had reason to go off them, they’d probably never use the secondary highways like this one.

  The sign informed him he was at the junction of 100 and 15. These were more direct routes rather than highways, but if he continued on down, he’d hit Interstate 89. Ahead of him were the small towns of Hyde Park and Morrisville. Neither of the names meant a thing to him but a further sign informed him Stowe was about another fifteen miles further down the 100 highway. He recognized that name, at least, as being in the Green Mountain ski area.

  What in the world was he doing way up here anyway, he thought. And how had he got up to this part of Vermont? His home in Rutland was close to seventy miles south of here. His last memory was of entering his home and seeing…? Once again, the door to his memory slammed tightly shut on him.

  He trudged back through the snow to the idling tractor and clambered awkwardly back aboard. In spite of the fact he was now wearing everything, his own clothes, the heavy parka, gloves and hat, with the oilskin and sou’wester over all of that, he was still bitterly cold. His cheeks and nose felt raw as he wiped a wet glove over his face, and he immediately regretted it. He’d also got his boots and the legs of his jeans soaking wet again.

  These Ford tractors had never been designed for long trips along the side of a highway and offered no protection to the elements at all, especially in winter. More modern models offered protection in the form of a Plexiglas cabin. It had already taken him a couple of hours to travel from the old house to where he was now and it was still bitterly cold.

  Thinking of the old house and the skeletal figure upstairs in the bed, he once again had an acute feeling of déjà vu. As he’d approached closer to the figure, to check out the hole in the forehead, a couple of mice had scurried out from between the skeleton’s ribs. He’d been terrified, because in the dim light, it had seemed to him as if the skeleton itself had moved.

  This morning, before he’d left, he’d considered going back up to take a better look. Maybe to take the rifle with him on the tractor too, but he quickly thought better of both options.

  Right now he was guilty of car theft, and quite possibly he’d been the cause of the girl’s death as well. But if it had to be, it would better to just be caught, than to be caught in the possession of a firearm as well. That would definitely get him shot, without a doubt.

  He also realized the old tractor wouldn’t run much further on the small amount of gas he’d put into it. Right now he’d have to think about shelter again for the coming night. With the snow now stopped, he could see clearly across the surrounding rolling countryside. If he could see clearly, it followed that anyone looking for him would be able to see equally clearly as well.

  He’d be smart to find a suitable hiding place early, even if he didn’t actually go to it until after dark. Also, even beneath his layers of clothes, he was already shivering just as badly as before.

  He had to dump the tractor now as well, which gave him another problem. Whatever he’d brought with him, the oil lamp, canned food and candles, he’d have to carry with him. The old tractor had got him this far but it was going to be way too conspicuous and a lot of people had already seen it on the highway. It was bright red, for God’s sake! Why wouldn’t they have seen it?

  He put the idling tractor into gear and made a left turn at the intersection. Using the shadows cast by the bright sunshine as a guide, he believed he should now be heading east.

  After another four to five miles after making his turn, he came to a narrow secondary road, also on his left. When he’d made the turn on to this road, he could see a house about a few hundred yards away, on his right.

  As well as the house, he could see a medium sized red painted barn with an attached silo, on the far side of the house.

  He drove the tractor past the house and on further down the road, past the barn as well. When he was well past it, he once again used a break in the trees to hide his getaway vehicle in the field behind them.

  As he got down from the tractor, he could see the back of the barn facing him across the field. It had been built at the top of a small hill. The house he’d seen was completely obscured from his view on the other side of the hill by the bulk of the barn and silo. Likewise, he was out of the view of the house as well.

  Reaching into the wooden crate under the tractor’s seat, he began to stuff the pockets of the parka with everything in it except the oil lamp. This he had to carry in his hand.

  As he turned to walk away, through the snow covered sloping field to the barn, he looked back at the tractor, and being red, it stood out from the surrounding snow and was easily visible. The saving grace was that, although it could be clearly seen from the road, it couldn’t be seen from the house.

  Of course, if the house’s owners left the house, they would surely wonder what someone else’s tractor was doing in their field. With the blizzard now over it was highly unlikely that even blowing snow would do much to hide it.

  After his painful and totally unnecessary experience of the previous night, he made no attempt to cover his tracks as he plowed his way across the field to the barn. This wasn’t exactly what he’d intended, but his choices appeared to be somewhat limited. He really didn’t want to be seen walking across a field in broad daylight, but that too wasn’t an option either.

  Trudging wearily uphill through the deep snow in his soaking wet boots, he finally reached the back doors of the barn. These were the animal entry doors and were securely locked. The house was on the far side of the barn and probably there’d be an entry door on that side as well, providing easy access to the barn from the house.

  He edged his way carefully along the back of the barn looking for another way in, out of sight of the house. As he rounded the far end, he came to a small access door, which was directly across from another smaller building. This second building was also much closer to the house.

  It had been hidden from his view by the barn as he’d approached. It was similar in size to the large shed at the old house in which he’d found the tractor. He couldn’t see any signs of life anywhere from where he stood, but if he tried to investigate the smaller building, he’d then be in full view from the house.

  David Gates gripped the small door’s handle and turned it. Much to his relief, it opened easily and he slipped inside.

  The barn itself was empty of any kind of farm animals. No cows, horses or anything else except perhaps a few mice. There were several gaps between the siding boards, where blowing snow from the night before had drifted inside. Now he was also inside, David could see there was another entry door on the house side of the barn, as he’d expected. The barn actually had two doors for cattle. The one he’d seen earlier, leading out to the field and the one he was seeing now.

  There was also a large square window, set diamond fashion, high up in each end wall of the barn, plus several lower down. He’d noticed the typical Vermont white painted cupola on the roof as he’d approached across the field. It appeared to him the barn was no longer in use as a working farm building though.

  There were many like that scattered across the State. All over the country too, he supposed, in various states of disrepair.

  David shrugged off the oilskin and sou’wester and hu
ng them on a nail beside the door. Ahead of him was a built in ladder leading to a hay loft. He set the oil lamp down on the floor at the base of it.

  Leaving the examination of the loft for a moment, he went over to the far side of the barn and peered out at the house through one of the spaces between the boards. The two storey house, with a detached garage, which he now realized the other smaller building was, appeared to be a good two hundred yards away. Because of the accumulated and drifted snow, he couldn’t tell where the yard stopped and where the driveway to the road started.

  More importantly, he could see that the house was definitely occupied. Smoke drifted up lazily from the chimney and he could faintly hear the sounds of country music coming from inside the house.

  He couldn’t see any signs of tracks leading from the house to the barn. With no animals to attend to, what reason would the occupants have to come in here? Especially in this weather.

  David could see the barn roof looked sound and was probably reasonably waterproof. He made his way back over to the hayloft ladder and, picking up the oil lamp, climbed the ladder up into the loft.

  He cleared a space of hay and emptied his pockets of all of his collected supplies. He’d put the lamp down but he wouldn’t light it. It would be a dead give away to the house’s occupants that there was someone inside their barn. A light shining inside the barn would surely bring them out to investigate, even if the barn was no longer in use.

  David was suddenly very hungry, almost ravenously hungry now. He attributed it to his freezing and debilitating experiences of the previous day. Now, looking at his collection of unlabelled cans, he made his choice. Because it was the easiest, he chose what he believed to be canned meat. It was the easiest because it had its own pull strip and attached key. He thought would know immediately if it was still edible by the smell of it. Meat that was ‘off’ didn’t usually leave you in any doubt at all as to its edibility.

  Beside him, poking out from under the hay was a small piece of painted plywood. He picked it up and wiped it on the sleeve of the parka. Not very hygienic, he thought, but what the hell, he had to put the meat on something.

  He keyed the metal strip open and sniffed at the contents. The meat seemed to be okay and once again he was out of options. He continued pulling the top off of the can, upended it onto the piece of plywood and shook it. Nothing happened until he had shaken it several more times.

  Finally it plopped out of the can and on to the plywood ‘plate’. It was corned beef, just as he’d thought it would be. David picked up the board and sniffed at the meat again just to be sure. The can was sure as hell long past its ‘use by’ date.

  He took a deep breath, picked the block of meat up off the board and bit into it. He wasn’t sure if it was contaminated in any way but right now it tasted just great. In no time at all, he had eaten all of it, but he’d also need to drink as well.

  He’d had nothing liquid at all since the coffee at the diner the previous day. After leaving the board on the floor of the loft, he climbed back down the ladder and began to look around the barn. He soon found what he was looking for. A galvanized metal bucket was hanging from a nail in one of the stalls.

  It was dusty, but otherwise appeared to be relatively clean. He took it over to the small entry door, scooped some snow into it and wiped it out. Then he half filled it with fresh snow and carried it back inside again. When the snow melted, the water he’d have would be as pure as he could have wished for. In the meantime he took a handful of snow and slowly put some of it into his mouth.

  Carrying the bucket up the ladder, he set it down on the loft floor and packed hay around it, which he thought would speed up the melting process. He didn’t realize that out in the barn, the hay would probably insulate it rather than help to melt it.

  Finally he made one more trip down the ladder. This time he took the piece of plywood with him. Carrying it over to the door as he’d done with the bucket, he used some more snow to scrub it as clean as he could.

  He smiled to himself as he recalled a saying his old English grandmother used. “Don’t worry about a little bit of dirt, laddie. You’ll be eating a peck of it before you die.” She never did tell him what a peck was though.

  David closed the door and carrying the board with him, he climbed back up the ladder into the loft again. He put the board down beside the oil lamp and took off his jeans, his soaking wet socks and boots. He hung the socks and jeans to dry over the rail of the loft, and then he burrowed himself as deeply down into the hay as he could. Within minutes, he’d stopped shivering and he was fast asleep.

  Hours later, he awoke in a panic to the sound of an engine running right outside the barn door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Erica Caspar had identified her sister Maria’s body, shedding many more tears in the process. She was now back at Judy’s place, having an evening meal with Carl and Judy. Almost had dropped by to introduce himself, offer his condolences and to arrange a pick up time for her in the morning. He’d be driving her back to Rutland.

  Once the initial shock of losing her sister had worn off a bit, Erica was both pleasant and talkative. The two women got along very well, with Erica helping Judy to prepare the meal.

  Carl and Almost put their heads together in the meantime, sharing what each had learned so far.

  “So, Almost,” Carl said, “This body out at the Finlay place, you reckon it was a homicide then?”

  “No doubt about it, Carl. The victim was shot, single bullet through the center of the forehead. Hard shot for a suicide to make with a rifle. An inch or so lower and it would have been right between the eyes. Whoever took this dude out was deadly serious. The rifle was lying on the floor beside the foot of the bed. Throwing it back there would be another tricky thing for a suicide to do after he’d just shot himself through the head, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re saying ‘he’, Almost. You think the victim was male then?” Carl asked.

  “No, Carl, ‘he’ was just a figure of speech. It was impossible to tell, but the Burlington boys were all over it. I’m sure their pathologist will have that info for us by tomorrow and can tell us how long the victim’s been dead,” Almost told them. “From what I saw of the condition of the body, I’d say it must have been several years. Five or six would be my guess.”

  “That would have been around the time Dolly Cook took off with her fancy man, wouldn’t it? I always had Jack Finlay slated for that, since they both took off at the same time. Though Lord knows why she would have preferred Jack to Errol.”

  Judy said, “Errol wasn’t drinking until after Dolly left either, but Jack had been a dirty old bum for years.”

  “He owned that dilapidated old house, but it was all he ever had going for him,” Carl said. “No one in their right mind would ever have bought it off of him either. So it was no wonder he just walked away from it, was it?”

  Almost and Judy nodded their agreement as Carl continued.

  “I always thought, like everyone else in town, he’d taken off to California with Dolly and had just deserted that old dump of his. That was what the gossip of the day was all about, and you know how accurate that can be, don’t you?”

  The other two nodded again.

  “Strange to now find an old dead body in Jack’s place, though, don’t you think?” Carl said. “I’ve always felt sorrier for poor old Errol though. He’s been trying to forget his Dolly with the help of a bottle for over five years now.”

  Several miles away, another man would have agreed with him completely. It was actually five years, six months and, what was it? Yeah, twelve days.

  He could have even told Carl and Almost the time of day, the type of murder weapon, the victim’s name and even what the reason had been for killing him.

  It was all over a woman, naturally, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it always over women or money? It was always one or the other. The ironical part of it all was neither of them had gotten the woman in the end. What had been even more ironical wa
s that her death had been purely accidental.

  For over five years he’d been trying to forget what had happened, but he couldn’t. He’d taken other measures to help him forget but they hadn’t worked worth a damn either. He also had the nightmares, drunken ones, but still nightmares all the same.

  He’d killed a man for nothing. Absolutely nothing!

  His wife had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she was going away with Jack Finlay, and he’d gone to Finlay’s dump of a place to confront them both.

  Without even thinking rationally, he’d forced open a window in Finlay’s house and had climbed inside. He’d snatched down Finlay’s hunting rifle from the rack on the wall and checked it was loaded. Then, rifle in hand, he’d rushed up the stairs.

  With one kick he broke open the door and had expected to find his wife and Finlay in bed together. As the door flew open, Finlay had awakened and sat up in the bed, startled at seeing a man pointing a rifle at him.

  “It’s not what you think, Errol. I haven’t done anything at all. She’s not here. She’s had an ac…” He didn’t finish, as his midnight visitor shot him through the forehead.

  It wasn’t until early the next morning that Jack Finlay’s midnight visitor found his wife dead in his own back yard. It looked to him as though, in her hurry to leave, she’d stepped on a garden rake whose handle had flown up and hit her in the forehead. The impact had knocked her over backwards and she’d hit her head on the decorative stone edging around one of her flower beds.

  It had obviously been an accident and Finlay hadn’t had anything at all to do with it, just as he’d been trying to say. But he also had obviously had seen her lying there injured or dead and had done nothing about it either. He’d just run away instead.

  His wife had threatened several times to run off with Finlay, the town bum, in order to get him all riled up. This time he’d thought she’d actually gone and done it.