by P. L. Gaus
Tonight, as he moved along the alleys of Millersburg, the cluttered backyards and closely packed wooden garages presented themselves to him silently, and his instincts began to quicken.
A broken-down hard-shell camper had been parked at the back of one yard, and weeds had grown up under it. The next yard was surrounded by a fence of slat boards and rusty wire, and there was a swing set with an old bicycle leaning against it. The sections of a dismantled TV antenna tower lay along the fence, bent wires of the antenna stacked on top. Farther along, an overturned charcoal grill lay next to a picnic table with a plastic ice chest propped upside-down on its hinges. At the next house, the garage had slipped off its foundation and was leaning heavily out of plumb. Three of the four windowpanes were broken out, and as he passed, Sands saw that the door had been taken off its hinges and propped against the side of the garage, where weeds had overtaken its bottom edge. At one dark section in the alley, Sands stumbled on a rake handle and fell next to a disorderly pile of garbage cans, garden hoses, and the rusted hulk of an old wheelbarrow. He cursed himself for the noise and then paused there on his hands and knees, listening intently.
The alley ahead was lit at an intersection by a streetlight. He knelt just out of range of the light and studied the backyards lit dimly by its beam.
There were plastic lawn chairs stacked next to two galvanized garbage cans. There was a plastic child’s swimming pool filled with rainwater. Against the side of the nearest garage was a stack of salvaged bricks, most still edged with mortar. At the back of the opposite garage was a cast-off water heater. Sands glanced back along the stretch of alley he had just covered, half expecting to see someone he recognized, knowing that he never would. Then he rose and walked quickly under the light, across the intersection, and into the alley beyond, where a block of five darkened houses awaited him.
He approached the first house in near total darkness, covering the yard quickly, crouched over in a run, feet splashing across the water-soaked grass, head narrowly ducking under a wire clothesline that ran from the house to a pole in the yard. He tried the back door, but it was locked. No problem, he thought, just move on to the next one.
The next house was also easily approached. He slipped across a darkened, blacktop driveway that separated the two lots. He was there in seconds, and at the back of a white, wood-frame house, Sands found a porch with a screen door that wasn’t latched. That was all the opportunity he ever needed. The sort of thing he’d always dreamed about in prison.
He was inside in seconds, and, moving slowly in the dark, he felt his way across a small back porch with a noisy wooden floor, and then through a kitchen, a swinging door into a dining room, and a living room. His prison ears served him well as he stood motionless, listening in the dark until his eyes adjusted to the faint street light coming through a front living room window.
The house smelled peculiar to him, maybe old. He’d find two retired fools upstairs, he thought, and take everything they had of value. He made himself think calmly and planned his first night in Millersburg. He could work here for maybe an hour as the owners watched, forcing them to surrender cash, jewelry, whatever pleased him. Maybe he’d kill them.
He felt intensely alive as he found the steps to the bedrooms upstairs. He had his revolver out in his right hand. He reached out with his left hand and felt the smooth, worn wood of the handrailing. His feet moved slowly and methodically on the plain wooden steps. The revolver’s heavy weight calmed him, as he eased up the steps.
Abruptly, there was a noise downstairs. It stopped him on the steps. A screen door squeaked open and slammed shut against its wooden frame. The floorboards of the back porch gave out their careless noises. His ears worked acutely.
A light came on in the kitchen. He could see its glow outside on the driveway through a window on the stairway landing. He turned his head slightly, his mouth open to enhance his hearing. His pulse rang in his ears, and he decided to risk another step on the stairs, descending closer to the noise. But as he turned and started down in the dark, his boot missed the step, and he tumbled sideways down the stairs, struck his head on the closet door at the bottom, and blacked out for a brief moment.
When he came around, Sands fumbled for his gun on the hardwood floor, found it, and struggled to stand. A sharp pain in his ribs dropped him to his knees, and he groaned heavily. As he pushed his way to his feet, with the revolver in his right hand and his left arm wrapped over his broken rib, Sands heard the sounds from the switchhook of a phone, followed by three short taps. A woman’s voice in the kitchen spoke urgently, “911?”
In the living room, Sands tried the front door. It was locked. He fumbled to work the lock, but it was the dead bolt kind that requires a key. The woman on the phone seemed closer to him now, as she spoke briskly in the kitchen. His instinct was to flee, but his head throbbed and his ribs ached from the fall, and it angered him. And he realized coldly that there would be several minutes before he heard the sirens.
He turned from the door and peered into the shadowed dining room. He thought of the kitchen. He could still hear the woman back there, blocking his way. The light went out.
He moved slowly toward her. He imagined her up close. He could hear her voice on the phone. No police, yet. He had time. He’d take time. He held his left arm across his aching ribs, and, crouched over in pain, with his revolver still clutched in his right hand, he advanced toward the voice on the phone, unaware that he had been groaning all along.
He was in the living room. Now the dining room. Moving toward the kitchen. The phone receiver clattered onto the floor. He was at the swinging door into the kitchen, with a sense of menacing power surging through him.
Then, in a shattering instant in the dark, as he pushed through the swinging door, a wooden chair broke across his face, cutting and stunning him. He had not been prepared for the blow. It simply exploded in his face, and he knew she would fight. Again, before he could react, there came a second vicious blow from the chair, this time striking him across his chest. The pain surprised him. Rage enhanced the effect within him.
He staggered backward under her blows, into the dining room. She pursued him in the dark, swinging the chair furiously. He retreated into the living room, and still she pushed her attacks with the chair, screaming at him. For a brief moment he slipped free of her attack. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her approaching again and raised his gun.
He fired a shot into the dining room, and the muzzle flash gave him his first view of a young woman in a yellow raincoat, hood down across her back, short hair wet, caught in the muzzle’s burst of blue and orange light, with the chair raised over her head, surprise on her face, stunned by the explosion. He had missed.
He could hear her backing up, now, against the dining room table. She tossed the chair into a corner and fled back to the phone. It was a mistake.
He advanced on her. He caught her in the dark and jerked her back into the dining room. She struggled in his grip, clawing, hammering, and pushing off to free herself. He could smell the new rain in her hair when he cracked the heavy revolver across her face, knocking her into the corner of the dining room. Broken glass and china showered over her as she sprawled against a hutch, and Sands figured for a brief moment that that would be the end of it.
But as he stepped free of her, wiping blood off the side of his face with the back of the hand that still held his revolver, she came at him again. And he shot her. Twice. In the chest.
The muzzle flares from his .44 magnum lit her up in two rapid flashes of light. The second one caught her stumbling backward, lifted nearly from her feet, shock and dismay on her dying face. As her body crashed into the shattered glass in the corner near the broken hutch, Jesse Sands’s eyes were imprinted with the glimpse of her seeming to hover in the air, his mind stunned by the horrific explosions from the magnum revolver in the confinement of the small, dark room. And she was dead before Jesse Sands had ripped his way through the back screen door.
But before he had cleared the steps on the back porch, while one foot still reached out for the lawn below him, with the image of crimson blood on vivid yellow lodged in his mind, and with the faint sounds of approaching sirens, Sands’s forehead exploded into an infinite brightness, where colors flashed brilliant behind his eyes and shattered to white, like crystal on a black marble floor.
2
Tuesday Night Several days later
JESSE Sands lay back smoking on his cot in a second-floor cell of Millersburg’s old red brick jail on Courthouse Square. He was dressed in an orange prisoner’s jump suit, the buttons undone to his waist, his ribs strapped with tape. He rubbed at the light red hairs of his chest, grew tired of the cigarette, and flipped it at the toilet, not bothering to check where it landed. In a scattered pile around the toilet lay a dozen half-finished smokes from that night, with lines of ashes and brown tar stains on the concrete floor where they had burned out.
As he lay dozing, the black metal door at the end of the line of cells opened with a clank, and three men came up to his cell. With a practiced scorn, Deputy Ricky Niell said, “You have visitors, Sands,” and stepped back down the hall to stand at the metal door.
Sands eased up on an elbow, cranked his neck around toward the front bars of his cell, and saw a tall, blond man in his fifties, dressed strictly Amish—dark blue denim trousers, white cotton blouse with string ties, black cloth vest, and summer straw hat. Next to him stood a shorter man, with long white hair and full white beard, dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt.
“I’m Pastor Troyer,” the shorter man said.
Sands flopped back onto his cot and said, “Don’t need no pastoring, Preach.”
“I’m not here as your pastor, Mr. Sands. I’ve brought a friend. This is Mr. David Hawkins. Father of the girl you murdered.”
Sands sat up on the edge of his cot and studied the two faces on the other side of the bars. The Amishman appeared nervous, but also stern. The pastor stood casually, peaceful.
Troyer stepped closer to the bars and said, “My friend has something to say to you, Mr. Sands.” He eased the Amishman somewhat closer to the bars and waved a go-ahead.
The Amish Hawkins said, “You killed my daughter,” and halted, uncertain. Perhaps unresolved.
Sands scowled, lit another smoke, and said, “So?”
“So,” Hawkins said, “I forgive you.” His hands trembled and tears coursed his cheeks and spilled into his beard.
Sands stood up, faced the bars purposefully, and blew smoke at Hawkins. Hawkins closed his eyes, struggled for will, and said again, “I forgive you, Mr. Sands.”
With satisfaction, Troyer laid his strong hand firmly on Hawkins’s shoulder and gave a soft, encouraging squeeze. He turned and left Sands and Hawkins facing each other through the bars, and he walked back to Ricky Niell at the end of the cells.
“Thanks, Ricky,” Troyer said. “This will put David a long ways down the road to getting over his daughter’s death.”
Niell nodded, said, “No problem.”
At the bars, Sands said something in a low, scornful tone to Hawkins, and Hawkins moved closer. Sands came forward and appeared to whisper through the bars. Hawkins stiffened, listening intently, and then cried out. Sands laughed aloud. In an instant, Hawkins had both arms through the bars, fingers locked on Jesse Sands’s throat.
Sands wrestled to free himself, kicking at the bars and pulling down on Hawkins’s wrists, but the Amishman’s grip held firm. Niell ran up to Hawkins and pulled hard on his shoulders, and then his arms, ineffectively. Sands started to sag, and his throat gurgled painfully as he fought for breath.
Niell pulled his weapon and planted the muzzle on Hawkins’s temple. “Let him go,” Niell barked, and Hawkins slowly turned his head to glower at Niell.
“Let him go!” Niell shouted, and cocked the hammer on his pistol.
Abruptly, Hawkins pushed Sands back from the bars, withdrew his arms, and swung his right arm up and over Niell’s pistol. In an impossibly short fraction of a second, he acquired the pistol, pinned Niell’s back against the bars, and thrust the gun into Niell’s face.
Cal came to Hawkins’s side and said, “Let it go, David.”
Hawkins said, “You don’t know what you’re asking, Cal.”
“I do,” Cal said. “Let it go!”
“Not now,” Hawkins said vehemently.
He pressed his thumb tightly against the side of Niell’s neck and caught him under the arm to lower him to the floor. He eased the hammer down on Niell’s pistol and handed the loaded weapon to Troyer. Finally he said, “You don’t know what you’ve asked me to do,” and disappeared through the metal door at the end of the hall.
3
Saturday, May 31 5:30 P.M.
SO the Bromfield kid got his story. Well then, that tears it wide open. Reporters never learn.
His plane arrived at 4:05 this afternoon, and that’ll put him here any time now. Of course he’ll come to the newspaper offices. Just wait him out. Deal with him when he gets here.
OK. Run the weapons check. The .45. The .38. The .22. The silencer. Easy now. There’s his car. Walk over slowly. Stay casual. Time it to meet him as he gets out of the car. Smile. Not too fast. Good. He’s not running. Excellent.
“Mr. Bromfield, I’d like a word with you.”
“I’m sure you would, but I don’t think so,” Bromfield answered, walking around the front of the car.
“Look. I know that you’re interested in the Sands case. How about I buy you dinner and tell you what I know? That sound all right to you?”
Eric Bromfield stopped and turned. “I’ve got the whole story now, so you’re pretty much all washed up.”
How foolhardy Bromfield is, standing arrogantly in the alley, when he should be running for his life. Check all around. Is there anyone else here? Walk slowly toward him and reach for the .22.
Slowly. Don’t spook him.
“How about it, Bromfield? You can have it as an exclusive.”
“What makes you think I need to talk to you? I’ve been doing some checking, and I’ve got all the facts I need.”
This is too easy. Make as if you’re leaving. Shrug as if you couldn’t care less. Start walking away and make it look as if you expect nothing more natural than for him to follow you into a deserted alley, like any good reporter who has a new lead.
Turn, now, to face him.
“Come on, Bromfield. Just half an hour.”
Good. He’s at the passenger’s door. No need to talk now. Just five paces back to the car. He’ll pull out the keys and fumble with them for one second. Everybody does that. Walk up to the car door as he bends to open it. There it is. Almost done.
Now step up. Stop shaking. Don’t let him see your face. He’ll read your eyes. A tap on his blind shoulder. OK, there, that did it. Reach behind the sport coat. There’s the Ruger .22. Steady. Don’t rush it. Just as he turns. One second more. There it is. Smoothly draw it. Up to the temple. Pop. Pop.
Now hold his arm. Keep him upright for just a second more. Turn him and ease him into the passenger’s seat. That’s it. Now close the door. Keys are on the ground. OK. Around to the other side. Scan quickly. Did anyone see? Is anyone looking?
Good. Into the car. Hold him up. Let his head rest against the back of the seat. Slowly now, drive away. Smile, in case anyone sees. Talk to Bromfield as if he still can hear.
4
Sunday, June 8 3:00 P.M.
DEPUTY Sheriff Ricky Niell found himself on the hills of Millersburg College shortly after commencement exercises had finished. He pulled his cruiser into the shade of the tall college oaks, near the street where Professor Michael Branden lived with his wife Caroline in a two-story brick colonial on a cul-desac just off the college grounds. He switched off the engine and reported his position to the weekend dispatcher down at the old jail.
As he waited for the professor to come along the sidewalks in the east end of town, Niell’s thoughts turned to fir
earms. In particular, one very modern and deadly firearm. Niell was interested in it because Sheriff Robertson was interested in it. A .22 automatic, likely fitted with a silencer.
According to Coroner Taggert, it had been held close to the left temple of Eric Bromfield, something like a week ago, the first two bullets snapping his head right. Then later, another shot from the same .22 automatic, this time into the base of young Bromfield’s skull, piercing the brain stem. They had found the body yesterday, and the sheriff’s indignation had been nearly boundless.
Sheriff Robertson faced two homicides, now. There had been the Hawkins girl in her own home, back on May 15, and now there was the young reporter, Eric Bromfield. Consequently, Bruce Robertson’s changeable personality had swung into a manic phase, and the deputies at the jail were paying a heavy price for his displeasure.
Niell spent twenty minutes near the college, watching the graduates and their families pace their routes into the dorms, out to their cars, and back. While they wrestled boxes into cars, the professor appeared on the lawn under the oaks, his goldtasseled, blue velvet tam still balanced on his head, his gown and hood draped casually over one arm.
He was dressed in a faded gray suit, white shirt, and red tie. Patches of his wavy brown hair poked out from under his tam. He had a thoughtful look in his eyes as he strode along under the tall oaks and the few surviving wide and majestic elms that lined the streets near the college. A graduate ran up to him on the street, shook his hand, talked for a moment, and gave him a hug before returning to the dorm.
The professor stood watching the students for a while. When he turned to walk again, his light blue eyes watched the old familiar brick sidewalks as he eased along toward home. His collar was undone, and his tie was loosened. With the summer come at last, he’d likely dress in nothing more than blue jeans and T-shirts for the next three months. He’d get into a pair of hiking boots, break in a new summer hat, take up a rod or two, and angle his way through the weeks, resting his mind from the classes.