Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  “Shall I send word to Ike?” George asked.

  “Anybody but Ike. No. When the storm clears, have somebody let Will know. Tell him to give us a day. We don’t need any trigger-happy drunks looking for Mandy. My brother, Cam, is arriving tomorrow afternoon. Will should tell Cam to go the Lazy Key and wait for me there. If we aren’t back by nightfall tomorrow, Cam will have to calculate what to do next.”

  “Did you hear that, Martha?” George said.

  Martha, a dark, sad-eyed woman with an aristocratic bearing, had kissed him softly on the cheek. “Yes, dear. Consider it done. Now ride with the wind. Don’t come back without that precious little girl.”

  Willow, who looked and moved like her name, appeared just before we stepped out into the storm and tendered an oilcloth bag filled with hardtack, beef jerky and dried fruits. “God go with you,” she said.

  It had taken us an hour to get to this place. A mile in an hour. We knew our destination: the line shack at Coyote Canyon, at least another three miles from our shelter. It was futile to try to pick up a trail. Our first bet had to be Karl Wainwright. The second was the line shack where George had spotted him. If we didn’t find Mandy or pick up a lead there, all bets were off.

  I glanced at George who stood no more than three feet to my left. A flash of lightning illuminated his face, giving it a ghostly effect. His expression was grim, his obsidian eyes simmering with something almost inhuman. He cast aside the butt of his cigarette and commenced rolling another. He felt my gaze and his eyes locked with mine. I wondered if I looked as somber and menacing as my companion and decided I probably did.

  George spoke in a rasping near-whisper. “A man like this will need to die. When we find him, you will leave him with me. He will touch no more children.”

  I shook my head. “No. Mandy is my daughter. His fate is in my hands.”

  “You are a man of the law. You cannot do what must be done.”

  I set my jaw as our eyes dueled stubbornly. “I will do what must be done.”

  George gave a single nod and returned his attention to fashioning the cigarette.

  We stood there in silence the better part of another hour as the storm raged on. Finally, the wind began to die down and the torrents turned to mere sheets. “It’s easing up,” I observed.

  “It will return,” George said. “I know you want to get moving, but we’ve got to give it time to blow over . . . at least a few hours.

  “A single minute could make the difference.”

  “Yes. And that’s why we can’t risk a broken leg on a horse. Or meeting up with a flash flood. Or slipping over the edge of a canyon wall. Maybe they’ve been slowed down, too.”

  “They had a good head start, and if they were headed for the canyons, they were moving east ahead of the storm.”

  “Don’t matter. We don’t have any say so over what they do. We can only control what we do.”

  George was right, of course. We couldn’t rescue Mandy if our bodies were washed up twenty miles downriver. But the wait was agonizing. I was struck by the fact that the only comparable experiences in my life were when I suffered through two horrifying death watches as I waited for the life force to be choked out of first one young son and then the other.

  As George predicted, we were not on our way in until several hours after midnight, and it was damn slow going. We fought swollen creeks, and we had to dismount and slog through mud from time to time when the murk sucked unmercifully at the hooves of our horses. It was daybreak when we forded a swollen stream that usually threaded like a slender ribbon through Coyote Canyon. The rain had finally stopped and streaks of sunlight sneaked through the downy clouds, and a splendid rainbow spanned the canyon like a heavenly archway to the south. I guessed that full sun would fight its way through the haze by midday.

  We could see the faint outline of the shack in the distance, and we dismounted and tethered the horses. There was a newly revived carpet of multi-hued green grasses on the canyon floor but very little in the way of cover to protect our approach. We decided we would each work our way in from opposite sides of the canyon, hoping that Karl was not looking for pursuit just yet, if, in fact, he still occupied the little cabin. I saw no sign of a horse as I moved in closer from my angle, and this discouraged me. I feared we had placed the wrong bet when we gambled on this place. Then I reminded myself once again this had been the only bet.

  When we were perhaps twenty-five yards from the shack, I signaled George to hang back while I approached the door of the cabin. If Karl took me out, Mandy would have a second chance with George. I crouched low and raced toward the cabin with my Winchester cocked and ready to fire. I expected to take a bullet at any moment, but I had determined Karl Wainwright couldn’t fill me with enough lead to bring me down before I got to him and took him with me to hell. To my surprise I reached the cabin without incident, and I inched up to the shack and flattened my back against the rough pine wall and waited. Silence. Anyone inside must have been sleeping. Or must be very, very patient. I waved George in closer, and he positioned himself in the grass with his rifle sighted on the door.

  Quietly, I moved along the cabin wall toward the closed door. I softly tested the door handle. The door moved without resistance. Still no response. I leaned my rifle against the cabin wall and drew my Colt revolver. Then, in a single motion, I pushed the door open and dived through, striking the floor with my left shoulder and rolling once before I swung my pistol around in search of a target. There was none. I got up and signaled George in before I looked around.

  Then I spotted a rickety cot at the end of the one-room cabin, and the bile rose in my throat as I walked to it and found the signs that Karl and Mandy had been there. “Goddamned sick animal,” I screamed as George came through the open doorway. “The evil, slimy bastard.”

  I had seen all of the horrors of war that a man could see. But this sickened me more than anything I could remember, and waves of weakness and nausea swept over me. I was only vaguely aware of George’s firm hand on my shoulder as we looked at the massive splattering of recently fresh blood on the filthy feather mattress and Mandy’s underpants and mud-caked denim britches in a little pile next to the cot.

  31

  Casey

  CELESTE KIMBALL-WAINWRIGHT’S trial was going to come to an end a day early. Casey had anticipated re-calling Sheriff Isaac Bell to explore his strange connection with Karl Wainwright, but the sheriff had suddenly turned up missing. His fuzzy-faced deputy had appeared nearly tongue-tied before Judge Hutchens immediately after court convened and reported he had been unable to serve the subpoena on his superior as ordered. The sheriff had disappeared without so much as a word to anyone. Both of his horses were gone. His room at the Widow Tucker’s boarding house had been cleared out, and his firearms and personal belongings had been evacuated from the sheriff’s office. It was as if some ghost had spirited him away into the night.

  Casey had thought long and hard about calling Celeste to testify in her own defense. Celeste, in fact, had continued to be insistent about doing so. But Casey had reservations. Celeste’s story was one of simple denial. She had never plotted Ralph Wainwright’s death, had never approached Karl about killing his father. The night of Ralph's death, he had left the residence on some undisclosed mission, presumably to rut with his slut on her Saturday off. Celeste had spent the evening in the parlor reading some book, the name of which she could not recall.

  There was a fair chance that Celeste would charm the male jury, but no better than fair. Smooth as she was, Casey doubted that Celeste’s story could withstand rugged cross-examination. There was no way to corroborate her testimony. It was her word against Karl’s. Casey felt she had established in the minds of some jurors, especially the blacksmith and the schoolteacher, that Karl was a probable liar. Intuitively, she saw Celeste as no more truthful than Karl. There were too many gaps in her tale. She professed undying love for Ralph. In spite of his philandering and his wicked ways, she could never have harm
ed him, or even wished for his demise. Casey doubted the woman had rarely, if ever, loved anyone as much as she loved herself. All Casey had to do was to plant a reasonable doubt in the collective mind of the jury. If she had not already accomplished that, she hoped to do so in her closing argument.

  Celeste and Casey had locked horns this morning when Casey informed her client of the decision not to have her testify. “Need I remind you I am paying your fees?” Celeste had said testily.

  “Not at all,” Casey had replied. “Need I remind you why you are paying my fees? My job is to keep you from being the first woman to hang in Nebraska since statehood. You have the right to testify, and if you insist, I will do my best. But I promise you if there is the least bit of untruth in your testimony, the jury will see it, and you’re likely to leave this earth with rope burns on that pretty neck.”

  Celeste had finally relented, and Casey had proceeded this morning to lay out the defense’s evidence in less than an hour. She had called as her expert witness—and only witness—Dr. Omar Hauptmann, who at her behest had examined the victim’s remains and now verified it was impossible to say how Ralph Wainwright died. There had been obvious damage to the skull, but the fatal injury could have been inflicted by hammer or some other such instrument, as well as gunshot—or both. There was no apparent residue of gunpowder, although on cross-examination he conceded that Tillie Crump’s hogs would likely have destroyed any such evidence.

  To the obvious surprise of judge, jury and spectators, Casey, after Dr. Hauptmann’s dismissal by Judge Hutchens, had softly and abruptly declared, “Defense rests.”

  Shortly before noon, Jess Cooper completed an impassioned closing argument on behalf of the state, extolling the victim’s godlike virtues and lamenting the heinous, undignified circumstances of his death and disposal. Cooper hammered again and again at the fact there existed an eyewitness to the dastardly deed and deftly skirted other evidentiary issues. All in all, Casey thought the young prosecutor had been quite effective.

  The judge declared a lunch recess, and now Casey waited to present her own closing argument while the judge conferred with the bailiff at the bench. She turned to Celeste, who looked a bit too smug. “No rolling of your eyes. Remember, you are wrongly accused. You are hurt. The jury will be watching you now. My remarks will be shorter by half than Mr. Cooper’s. Be demure while I’m speaking. Sincere concern, rather than overconfidence, is best now.”

  “So you’re not just my lawyer now. You are my acting coach as well?”

  “That’s right,” Casey snapped. “And I’m all that stands between you and the hangman.”

  “Miss McGlaun, you may proceed with closing,” announced the judge.

  Casey stood, pushed her notes aside and, with a thoughtful look on her face, walked slowly to the invisible jurors’ box and faced the members of the jury. Her eyes locked briefly with those of the teacher and the blacksmith, the former who responded with a faint smile and blushed slightly.

  “I will be considerate of your time,” Casey said. “I appreciate fully that each of you is a man who is here because you have seen fit to do your duty as a citizen of this great state.” She did not add that to do otherwise would subject the juror to contempt charges and possible jail time.

  “I thank you for the attentiveness and courtesy you have shown throughout this trial. We have toiled together some four days . . . Judge Hutchens, the lawyers and, of course, you the jurors. In a courtroom we all work, and we hope that the end product will be justice. Very soon, when the lawyers have spoken their final words, the task will be yours alone.” She paused for some moments. “You will decide if justice is done in this courtroom. It is a sobering thought, I know . . . but true.” Her eyes passed over the somber jurors, pausing on the teacher whose face was unequalled in its sincerity.

  “I would remind you that justice, first of all, demands that we do not punish the innocent. The protection of the innocent has the greatest priority in this system of ours, and because of that, it is fundamental in any criminal case that the defendant is not to be found guilty if there is a reasonable doubt as to his or her guilt. I am confident you understand that it is not your job to make your decision based upon probabilities. You do not find the defendant guilty if you think she probably committed the crime, or may have done it. To convict, you must be satisfied of guilt beyond any reasonable doubt. With that said, I would take just a few moments to review with you the evidence presented by the prosecution.”

  Casey then proceeded to discuss the testimony pertaining to cause of death and motive. She noted that several persons, given what had been revealed during the trial, could have had motives to murder Ralph Wainwright—certainly others besides Celeste. She emphasized there existed no scientific evidence to pinpoint how the victim had been killed.

  “Most of the evidence in this case doesn’t even approach circumstantial. It is simply non-existent. We can concede the senior Mr. Wainwright was in all likelihood murdered. There is no other reasonable explanation for his remains turning up in Mrs. Crump’s pigpen. But that does not tell us who killed him, or, as I have said before, how. The ‘who’ and the ‘how’ as proposed by Mr. Cooper are dependent upon the testimony of a single witness. Please, remember that when you begin your deliberations. There is not a scintilla of other testimony or tangible proof that points to the defendant’s guilt.”

  “Of necessity then, I trust that you will sincerely give your utmost attention to Karl Wainwright’s testimony. I suggest that if you have reasonable doubt as to the truthfulness of his testimony, you must reasonably doubt the defendant’s guilt, and, accordingly vote to acquit. There is simply no other evidence. And what is the quality of Karl Wainwright’s evidence? What is his credibility as a witness?”

  “Here is a man who arguably had more motive than the defendant to kill his father. Since the defendant was not legally married to the victim, Karl had every reason in the world to believe he was his father’s sole heir and beneficiary. It says much, does it not, that Karl was excluded from every known version of the will? Do you not find this a bit odd? What might have passed between father and son to yield such an outcome?” Casey was leading the jurors to speculation, and several barely perceptible nods indicated at least a few were following. She had leeway in closing argument that would not have been permitted in the evidentiary portion of the trial. The judge would caution the jurors that statements made by the lawyers in closing did not constitute evidence.

  Casey continued. “And what motive did Karl Wainwright have to render truthful testimony. For that we must rely upon our belief in his unfailing integrity. Otherwise what was Karl’s sole chance to inherit his father’s estate?” Casey let the jurors ponder the question a moment. “Yes, the defendant’s guilt is Karl’s only avenue to succeed to his father’s estate.” Casey gestured toward Celeste, who appeared properly demure and sinless. “Think about it. Are you willing to send this woman to the hangman based upon the testimony of Karl Wainwright?”

  Casey briefly reviewed the holes and inconsistencies in Karl’s testimony. How was the body removed from the house? Why was he not heard when he entered the house? Why did he wait so long before going to the sheriff? And, yes, where was the sheriff? Why did he not respond to the subpoena, leaving the defense without an important witness? She did not articulate it but strongly hinted at some dark reason for the sheriff’s absence. Another suspect, perhaps? The blacksmith’s eyes narrowed. He was wondering about that.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, the judge will instruct you that the burden of proving the defendant’s guilt rests upon the prosecution. She is not required to prove her innocence. That is not the way the American system of jurisprudence works. And I fear I may belabor the point, but the county attorney must prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.” She looked directly at the young schoolteacher. “A reasonable doubt.” Then her eyes fixed on those of the husky blacksmith. “A reasonable doubt,” she said in a near whisper as though the words were
intended solely for his ears. And they were.

  32

  Casey

  WHEN CASEY EMERGED from the town hall, it was with a sense of exhilaration. The case had been submitted to the jury, although since it was nearly mid-afternoon, the judge had declared deliberations would not commence until the next day. She had been a bit disappointed that Judge Hutchens denied her motion to sequester the jury, but she dared not argue the point too aggressively for fear of alienating jurors who wanted to return to their families and businesses before starting the process of deciding the case. Anyway, it was all out of her hands now, and she was not one to agonize over anything she could not change.

  Her eyes narrowed against the glaring sunlight and she sneezed several times as she was prone to do whenever she came out of a building and encountered a blazing sun. She planned to return to her room at the Fremont and change into something more comfortable and then try to locate Ian. She expected her job in Borderview to be over before the weekend was out, and she needed to speak with him, although she had no idea what she was going to say. She admitted she had been avoiding Ian, not because she was embarrassed over the night they spent together, but more because she did not want to face the emotions he evoked in her. She was not a promiscuous woman. Other than her Comanche “husband” she had been intimate with only one other man before Ian, and her attraction to Ian Locke was a powerful thing, frighteningly so for a woman who was accustomed to being in control of her feelings.