[Barbara Holloway 02] - The Best Defense

by Kate Wilhelm

  He grinned amiably and waddled to his desk. His chair was custom-made, oversized, well padded. He sank into it with a little sigh that could have signified pleasure.

  She had just missed her father, Pam, the receptionist, said; he had been in and left again. Good, Barbara thought.

  But she wasn’t ready to go home, she knew, as she headed west on Sixth, toward Highway 126, the major road to the coast in this area. It was said that from any point in downtown Eugene a fifteen-minute drive would take one out to the country, and for the most part that was true. She had bypassed most of the commercial strip, had driven past industrial strips, skirted Fern Ridge Reservoir, dotted with bobbing small boats, and was in open country within minutes.

  A few minutes later the land became hillier at the start of the eruption of the Coast Range of mountains that sheltered the broad valley from the Pacific storms. Her next turn would be onto Spring Bay Road, where the Dodgsons lived, next door to the Canby Ranch, where someone had killed Lori Kennerman and burned down the Canby house.

  The Dodgsons had made a statement that no one could have passed them to get to the Canby house that morning without being seen. They had convicted Paula Kennerman in their newspaper. Their son had come forward to supply a motive, and altogether they just might convict her in court.

  FIVE

  On her right the land was mesalike, while on her left forest-covered low hills came to the edge of the road, retreated, forming deep narrow valleys, advanced again, and beyond lay the paroxysm of the Coast Range with its rain forest. Orchards—cherries, apples, peaches—strawberry fields, pastures, fields of wheat gleaming in the sunlight, fields of grasses grown for the seed industry—all were very pretty and lush now in early summer before the usual summer drought struck. When she reached Lewiston, she slowed to the posted speed limit of twenty miles an hour. A small town, under a thousand people, it served the farming community, and it housed many people who drove the twenty-four miles back and forth every day to jobs in Eugene.

  She had driven through Lewiston before without stopping, and had paid little attention to it; today she looked it over more carefully. A Dairy Queen, Texaco station, post office, grocery store … and the large metal building housing the Dodgson Publishing Company. It was set back several hundred feet from the street, with a manicured lawn, precisely planted red petunias bordering a white walk to the main entrance, and a wide concrete driveway that vanished under a high wooden fence which enclosed the rear of the property. No one was in sight on the grounds.

  She nodded at the building, then turned onto Spring bay Road and followed it out of town, not yet heading for the Can by Ranch, in order to look at the Dodgson house. She passed an orchard and a strawberry field on her right and a meadow on her left. The main crop of berries evidently had been picked: now the field was open to the public, and women and children were there in force.

  On the other side, beyond the meadow, she caught a glimpse of the Dodgson house: it appeared to be on the edge of the forest that covered the hills and mountains all the wav to the coast. She drove on until she had a clearer view of the big house, which had been featured in the newspapers when it was built, twelve years ago. It looked more like a church than a residence: a center section peaked steeply, with tall beautiful stained-glass panels. Wings extended to the north and to the south: attached to the southern wing, the dome of the swimming pool rose. The meadow continued to the landscaping of the grounds close to the house, and behind the house the forest started.

  She would have turned at the driveway if she had not heard gunfire. Startled, she clicked off the radio. Gunfire. Up the road a short distance she saw a sign in the shape of a rifle fifteen feet long: Gallead Firing Range. Slowly she drove that wav. A Buick with four women in it pulled onto the road from the Gallead drive in front of her. Another car stopped for her to pass. The property was completely enclosed with high wood fencing, and a heavy gate that stood open. The gunfire was coming from behind a low concrete-block building, the only thing visible bevond the open gate.

  Barbara shrugged and continued driving, looking for a place where she could turn; the forest pressed in close to the roadway; the road became curvier, the grade steeper. She finally made her turn at a driveway that led to a small frame house where three VW vans were parked, two of them on blocks, one on its own wheels, all from the fifties or sixties. Apparently two of the vans were being cannibalized in order to keep the third one running.

  She retraced her route and turned onto Farleigh Road, where there was marshv ground on both sides, and from here she soon turned again onto the private road that led to the Canby Ranch. The Dodgson meadow, now on her right, had been neatlv cut and looked like a lawn, but the meadow on the Canby side was a real meadow with clumps of wild-flowers in bloom, orange and yellow poppies, blue lupines; at the edge of the woods on the far side stately foxgloves glowed like torches. A pond at the marshy end was almost hidden by sedges and cattails. Here, too, the meadow extended to the immediate area of the buildings. She passed another entrance to the Dodgson house, a gravel drive with a closed metal gate that was posted no trespassing. A short distance farther, at the driveway to the Canby Ranch, she was stopped by a log barrier.

  She parked her car as near the edge of the road as she could and then got out to walk around the log, a tree trunk twenty feet long, three feet through. Enough to stop any vehicle, she decided, thankful that the ground was dry and firm at the sides of the driveway. Her sandals were not meant for hiking through mud.

  The forest came within ten or fifteen feet of the drive, which curved out of sight among the trees. From here she could see only glimpses of the Dodgson house through a scattering of firs that had been left standing when the land was cleared. She walked on to the site of the Canby house. It had been bulldozed level, and the basement filled in with dirt that already was carpeted with grasses and weeds; only the stones of the foundation testified to the recent existence of a building.

  Beyond the grave of the house off to the right several hundred feet was a barn. A few fruit trees were visible; probably more were hidden by the structure. In the other direction, toward the meadow, a garden had been protected with deer fencing; weeds were luxuriant in the garden soil, some of them as high as the ten-foot-tall fence.

  The house had faced the logging road, and from here she could no longer see the Dodgson house; too many trees were on this side of the road. Slowly, feeling a great sadness that she could not account for, she walked around the leveled house site to where the back door must have been.

  She remembered Paula’s words: They had left by the back door and headed for the woods. One of the little girls had gone to the apple tree to wait for the other two girls.

  Now Barbara retraced Paula’s steps. At the edge of the woods she stopped again and surveyed the landscape. The entire meadow was visible, both on this side of the logging road and on the Dodgson side. The little orchard began several hundred feet away on her left against the backdrop of the deep fir forest.

  She returned to the house site and then looked at the barn, which was locked. They said Paula had gone to the house, to the barn for the gas, back to the house, clearly visible each time to anyone who happened to look this way. As Barbara walked around the house site again, a tall man appeared on the driveway, striding toward her grinning.

  “Honey, what’s the matter? Your old man knocking you around more than fun and games calls for? Tough shit, doll. This place is out of business.”

  He was lean and muscular, six feet one or two, with dark curly hair, a thick mustache, deep-set dark blue eyes. He was very tan, in his late forties or even fifties; it was hard to tell because he appeared so lean and fit—a man who valued his body and took good care of it.

  “So I see,” she said, walking toward the road. He was in the middle of the driveway. “You the caretaker?”

  “Nope. Just a friendly neighbor. Keeping an eye out.”

  She continued to walk, made a slight detour to go around him; he
stepped into her path.

  “Honey, you don’t have to be in a hurry. You got a problem, let’s talk. A little cold beer would go down right, wouldn’t it? A little talk.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m leaving now.” She had come to a stop, and now she took a step forward, another. He laughed and held out both hands toward her. She stopped again and opened her purse, drew out a notebook, and began to write, murmuring, “Short-sleeved blue shirt, LL Bean, three pens in pocket. Cardin jeans, faded blue, suede belt, brown. Reeboks, white. Rolex watch, ring with red stone. Six-two …”

  He watched her, his grin deepening. “Honey, what’s that for? You going to press charges or something? You don’t even know my name.”

  “I can find out,” she said, writing.

  “And what’s the charge? I think you’re kind of cute? Is that it?”

  “Harassment, intimidation, unlawful detaining, and if you get in my way again, I’ll add assault with intent to do harm, because I’m leaving now, and if you so much as touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”

  She snapped the notebook shut, put it in her purse, and began to walk around him. He did not move. She knew he watched her all the way to her car. She had to back up and move forward in increments until she was able to head out the narrow road. As she maneuvered her car around, he came to the log barrier across the drive, where he continued to watch her, no longer smiling. Getting her license number, she thought grimly.

  She did not start to tremble until she had made the turn off the logging road onto the county road to Lewiston. Not exactly fear, she told herself, and almost believed it. He had not been hyped up on anything but himself, and yet ... It was the “and yet” that made her grit her teeth in fury. She slowed as she reached the town again, and she suddenly wondered, Where had he come from? There had been no car. She stopped at the Dairy Queen for a Coke and asked the teenage counter boy who the man was. She didn’t need a full description; the boy knew. Royce Gallead, the owner of the firing range.

  She had dinner with friends that night, and then went to a movie with them, and the evening was not great, but pleasantly relaxing. After the movie, turning down coffee at one of the new espresso bars, refusing a piano bar, she pleaded fatigue, and went home and to bed. She slept fitfully, and when she dressed the next morning to go to the Kennerman apartment to collect Paula’s belongings, it was with a sense of relief; this was the sort of thing she should be doing, not running around the countryside daring trouble.

  The apartment complex was at Eighteenth and Chambers, an area that had been developed during the last fifteen years and already was going commerical, with supermarkets and banks, a chain shoe store, other miscellaneous shops, restaurants, and apartment complexes. This one looked nice from the outside: three buildings, four floors each, in a U-shape around a parking enclosure, with thoughtful landscaping and flowers in bloom.

  Jack Kennerman opened the door after her fourth ring. He glowered at her when she introduced herself.

  “They told me you’d be here and my lawyer says I get a receipt for anything you cart off, and no questions. I got nothing to say to you.” He pulled the door wider to admit her.

  He was slightly built, with dark hair that covered his collar, dark eyes, a sparse beard several shades lighter than his hair. He was pale, thin-faced, and his eyes were dilated too much for the dim light. Shades were down in the living room; the air smelled sour, as if nothing here had been open to the outside for weeks.

  “That’s fine,” Barbara said agreeably. “This is the list. Do you know where the things are?”

  “No,” he said without a glance at the list. “Never saw any of that shit.” He walked stiffly to a recliner chair and sat down. She followed him.

  Inside the apartment, claustrophobia set in quickly. The living room was tiny, with gray walls. The sparse furniture was rickety, made of pale wood and plastic. Newspapers and magazines and beer cans were scattered everywhere, on the furniture, on the floor. A few small rugs were crumpled up against the walls. There were several pale shadows of pictures recently removed from the dingy walls.

  “Paula said there’s a suitcase under the bed,” Barbara said, moving toward an open door. “I’ll get started.” The bedroom was smaller than the living room, with hardly enough space between the bed and a chest of drawers for her to get past. A heap of clothing was near the closet door, more dirty clothes were scattered on the floor, and the sheets and a light blanket lay in a jumble on the bed. No pictures, no knickknacks.

  The closet was almost empty; the few things in it were his. Barbara began to pick through the heap of Paula’s things in the corner. He had savaged them, torn them, ripped them to shreds, pulled them apart: straps off bras, panties torn into halves, blouses with sleeves ripped off. ... It looked as if he had taken a sharp knife to them, stabbing and tearing… There was nothing salvageable. Slowly Barbara pulled open the third drawer of the chest of drawers: empty. No jewelry, no sequined purse, no nice leather gloves… There were no books, not the big Audubon Birds, not the collected Andersen Fairy Tales, no children’s books.

  She went into the other bedroom. Empty. The windows were uncovered; even the shades gone. No child’s furniture, no toys. Nothing to indicate a child had ever lived on the premises, except remnants of wallpaper hanging in shreds. The paper had been pink, with fuzzy colorful animals. Barbara felt goosebumps rise on her arms and rubbed them briskly.

  She returned to the living room and regarded Jack Kennerman. “You’re trying to erase her altogether, aren’t you? All her things, her memory even. It won’t work, Mr. Kennerman.”

  “I told you I never saw any of the shit on that list! She’s a goddamned whoring liar. Let her prove she had diddly.”

  “She paid the rent, didn’t she, Mr. Kennerman? How are you managing it alone? Three-fifty, four hundred, utilities. Crack, meth. Whatever it is. Who’s footing the bills, Mr. Kennerman?”

  “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll stamp you down so hard you won’t leave a smudge! Get out of here!” He lunged from the recliner in her direction.

  “Oh, shut up,” Barbara said. “I’m not some poor little scared kid you can knock around.” She looked him over with contempt. “I asked some pretty good questions, Jack, and I think I’ll do a little digging and see if there are answers. Be seeing you.” She left without closing the door, and a moment later it slammed so hard the floor shook.

  What she wanted to do, she realized as she drove home, was to pack a lunch, head out to the coast, and walk on the beach for hours. Many hours. But not today. Today she had open house at Martin’s. Tomorrow, she promised herself.

  In her house, an apple in one hand, a piece of cheese in the other, she roamed from living room to bedroom, to kitchen, to office, and back to living room. Now and then she took a bite of cheese, a bite of apple, cheese. She shouldn’t have let her father talk her into staying here, she thought then. When she left his house for Eugene, he had asked her to stay in touch, within touching distance, not off in Arizona, or Montana, or wherever the hell she intended to go next. And because it had not mattered where she went, she had agreed. A mistake.

  She had dropped out once and for five years she had been free to roam, here, there, anywhere. Free, she mocked herself: Everything you are running away from, you find in your little suitcase wherever you open it. Suddenly a sharp picture of Mike’s face, frozen in revulsion, forced itself into her awareness, and she stopped moving, stopped breathing. That day he had seen her destroy a young man on the witness stand; he had seen her as ruthless, as pitiless, as cruel and relentless as any shark in the waters. The guy lied, she had stormed at Mike later, and she had caught him at it, and that’s how the game was played.

  The image had immobilized her; now she moved again, this time to the kitchen, where she put the apple and cheese on the counter, and then went out back, where the rhody seemed to be accusing her. Sharks, she thought bitterly, and then, Doclgson was dead right about that if nothing else.

  Her b
ackyard was overgrown with shrubs, weeds, clumps of daylilies trying to find breathing space. A week or two ago her landlady had suggested that if she was too busy to tend it, maybe she could hire a neighborhood boy? Tomorrow, she thought, she would look into that.

  She had dropped out, railing at a system that pitted the power of the state against an accused person who might luck into a decent attorney or might not. Luck of the draw. And if not, that accused person might go to prison, or be executed. Luck of the draw. Win a few, lose a few, and what’s the score?

  She had dropped out, but she had let herself be drawn back in; she had to admit she had allowed it to happen. Her father had not forced her, coerced her. And once back in, she had become the shark again, just like that, overnight devolution back to the briny. She realized she had become stock still, and she took herself back into the house.

  She liked being a storefront lawyer, she told herself in the kitchen. She enjoyed advising people of their rights, advising them about deeds and wills and contracts, about discrimination claims, about the pros and cons of declaring bankruptcy. The clients she advised needed and appreciated her help, and she did not have to hurt anyone, did not have to play the merciless game in court.

  “So, why are you into the soul-searching routine?” she asked herself out loud.

  She shied away from the question. She had fulfilled her obligation to Lucille to the best of her ability. Paula was talking and was ready to fight for her life. Two Brownie points. And she had made an effort to recover Lucille’s possessions. Half a point there.

  Lucille, she thought then, and without even posing the question, she knew the answer, what she had to do.

  Business was slow at Martin’s that afternoon. Only two people besides Lucille showed up, and they were satisfied quickly.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” Lucille said to Barbara when she took her place at the table. “She’s like a different person, fighting mad, I mean. And she says the new lawyer seems nice. At least he isn’t telling her the only thing to do is confess and all that, I mean.”