Slow Fall

by Edgar Warren Williams

  Pain crumpled his face; he dropped to the white sofa cradling his right arm.

  Matt lowered the gun, walked past Edmund, around Jan's rigid body, and to the phone. Roger hunkered next to it, sobbing on the floor where he'd fallen.

  “Nine-one-one?… Yes, it is.…”

  Matt looked to Pickett. His face said nothing. The pistol hung at his side. His voice was small above Roger's sobs, and calm.

  Jan stood silently, her face turned from the light.

  From across the room, Edmund grinned idiotically at the two of them, as if embarrassed by his gaudy red halo.

  24

  “Well, son, it aint pleasant, but then neither's murder. Look, the manager eye-dee'd him, for pete's sake. She seen him with the gun over the body, she seen him hanging around once or twice before. It aint pretty, and it aint nice, and I wish to hell it was somebody else, but—”

  “Why, Homer, why? That's what I wanna know.”

  “It was the girl. It was because of Amy. Roger didn't help that none, neither. But I guess he's gone pay for it now, all right. Anyway, Amy don't want nothing to do with Mark anymore, so he follows her, finds she's seeing this woman and—”

  “That's a motive? Come on, Homer—”

  “Then the Purdy fella comes into the piture. He goes by the Ayers' house, right? And Mark overhears him—we know he saw him come. And what does he learn? That this woman's not only Amy's mother, but she got something on his daddy that'd mess him over but good.”

  “You're reaching.”

  “Damn straight I am. Now just shut up for half a second.” Homer stared at Bodie Pickett for a moment while his face colored. “I don't need to prove nothing to you. Shoot, I don't even need to talk to you, so just shut up and listen.”

  “I second the motion,” said a small black man who fussed over Pickett's damaged hand; it was the intern who'd wrapped it the day before. “Either you stay still or you'll not only have a crooked hand, but one with a hole in it.” He smiled at Pickett from under a droopy black mustache and jerked a thread through the ragged gash.

  Pickett jumped.

  The intern chuckled.

  Sheriff Homer Beane said: “Listen, it aint so far fetched.” He counted off on his thick fingers. “First, Purdy. The guy could destroy his father. Then Millie. She could not only destroy Edmund, but might take Amy away—did, in fact, far as Mark was concerned.”

  “Sure, it's an adolescent's nightmare. But it's hardly motive for murder. Come on, Homer…”

  “I seen a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Sure, but that's it. If Mark had shot Purdy on the spot, maybe. Or if he'd had it out with Millie in some jealous rage. But these weren't like that. The murderer lured each to an isolated spot, then executed them. There's nothing impulsive in that. Anyway, what about the gun?”

  “We'll find it when we find Mark.”

  “I mean how'd he get it?”

  “Piece a cake, you know that.”

  “For a kid like Mark? Come on. You know the circles he runs in.”

  “Yeah, and I know the circles I been running in for the last couple days mostly cleaning up after you. And I been at it long enough to know where it's gonna end. We got a witness—”

  “To what? All you got is someone who might've seen Mark at the scene of the crime—”

  “—we got motive, we sure as hell got opportunity, and we got a match on the murder weapon.”

  Pickett looked up sharply. “Same gun?”

  “Yup. Same gun—both Purdy, and Millie Moses. Or Ayers—or whatever-the-hell name she was going by.

  “Okay. But the gun, it belonged to Millie.” He told Homer Amy's story of the confrontation between Millie and Purdy. “And she described the gun the same way your witness did.”

  “That's chicken-shit, boy. The woods're full of silver automatics—ladies purses, anyways. You can get them about anyplace but a Wheaties box. Anyways, it don't matter. We got everything we need. Opportunity, motive—”

  “Hell, Homer, you want motive, why not nail Mark for shooting Edmund. Christ, he wasn't there, but at least he had a motive.” Homer Beane stepped toward Pickett and pushed the intern aside.

  “We got three murders and two suicides in Belle Haven since you come back. Your goddamn big nose caused two of those. You killed your daddy yourself as sure as if you pulled that trigger, and since you can't face that fact—and lemme tell you, boy, it's sure as hell a fact—you go stirring up people you got nothing to do with, and one kills herself and the other kills somebody else and I'd say you done just about enough for Belle Haven. And the Moorings.”

  Pickett opened his mouth to speak, but Homer cut him off.

  “Now I come down here to get your statement, that's all. If it weren't for your daddy—for J.B. who was bout the best friend I ever had or hope to have… Well, I wouldn't even be talking to you bout this. Now it's all over. We're gone find Mark and he's gone have to answer for what he done. And you're gonna go home. And that's somewheres else, boy, not here. And then you can answer to your own self bout what you done and what you dint do. Shoot, by all rights you're as guilty as—as—” He looked wildly around the room as if for the word he couldn't find. When he failed to find it, Sheriff Homer Beane jammed his hat back on his head, wheeled around, and marched out of the room, his big boots clattering down the tiled hall. His voice echoed from the reception lounge down the hall: “God dammit, Skeeter… Get off your shaggy ass!”

  The black man chuckled self-consciously. “Ol' Homer's never been one for diplomacy.” He tied off the thread with a flourish, and delicately transferred Pickett's hand to a redheaded nurse for wrapping. “That's why they keep electing him. Everybody always knows what's on his mind.” He leaned back against the white wall and pulled a stick of gum from his white jacket and popped it into his red mouth. “You wouldn't think that people'd worry about that sort of thing out in the sticks, but they do.”

  Pickett's nurse tossed her red head toward the black man. “Listen t'him. Guy's from Cleveland. Do you believe it?” She had a few years on the young intern, and even more miles.

  “Now Martha…” said the black man obviously enjoying himself. “I'm about to make a profound analysis of small town life.”

  “Ugh.” Martha looked disgust at Pickett. “Guy comes from Cleveland to bring us poor crackers outta the stone age. They still wear bones in their nose in Cleveland, Doctor?”

  The intern proceeded with mock solemnity: “People like me come to a small town to get away from the city, to have a private life. But what we find is that the city's the only really private place. Nobody cares what you're doing or when your doing it. But in a small town, say, Belle Haven for instance—”

  “Right,” smirked Pickett's redhead.

  “—In a town like this everybody wants to know what you're doing and when you're doing it and who you're doing it with. Or to.”

  “Watch your mouth now, Doctor.”

  “And that's how Sheriff Beane fits in, see? Everybody's dirty secrets are safe because, if they're still secret, Homer doesn't know anything about them, and, hence, he doesn't believe them when he does find out. See?” He was talking to Pickett now. “You can't just live on the surface in a small town.”

  Pickett smiled. “You lost me, Doc.”

  “Look,” pushing himself from the wall, “you have to live on the surface, sure, you need a life to show everybody else, but you have another life underneath, a life that supports the other, that's lived behind the façade.”

  “Jeez—” The redhead rolled her eyes.

  Pickett wrinkled his brow above the smile. “Yeah, so?”

  The intern shrugged. “So nothing, I guess. It's just that nobody else seems to notice. Know what I mean? Everyone pretends that things are the way they seem. Everyone acts as though their lives are private, but in a town like this—” He gestured expansively to complete the thought. “So, I guess motives get very complicated, that's all. Motives for anything.”

  “You'r
e telling me,” muttered Pickett's nurse as she finished smoothing out the plaster on his wrist.

  The black man took it as a request: “I mean, everyone's got two lives—at least two lives. How many motives they got?” He chuckled then goosed Pickett's redhead. “But we aint gotta worry about that, Martha, do we?”

  Martha swore under her breath as the intern disappeared into the hall.

  “There.” Martha presented Pickett his hand as if it were a bottle of rare wine. It was as white and hard as the emergency room lights. “Don't pay no never mind to him. Two lives… Lord, I'm lucky enough to squeeze out one most days. You take care a that hand now, y'hear?”

  Pickett told her that he did and would. Then he tailed her to the reception desk where he took care of the bill.

  Though it was the dead of night, the air was still warm. Skeeter had delivered Pickett's Nova to the hospital lot. Pickett slipped behind the wheel as if into a hot bath. He headed toward town.

  “Two lives…” He smiled and shook his head. But the smile slowly straightened, and Pickett's eyes widened beneath a crinkled brow. He stomped on the brakes and pulled off onto the sandy shoulder. For a long while, he sat there in the same attitude. Suddenly, his face cleared, his jaw set. He U-turned off the shoulder and headed back to 17-92.

  25

  Bodie Pickett breasted the Osteen bridge again at 3 a. m. by the Nova's dash.

  Del Trap's place was dark.

  Farther down river at the Ayers' house one window glowed dimly.

  Pickett cut his lights as he passed Del Trap's pick-up and parked in the saw grass a few hundred yards beyond. He fished Tom's revolver out from under his seat. The dark crackled with night sounds—crickets, frogs, the buzz and whine of hungry mosquitoes. They covered Pickett's footfalls as he skirted the swamp grass up the Ayers' drive and sprinted to the side of the house.

  He peered into a dark bedroom that opened onto another room lit by a small table lamp. A leather easy chair stood next to the lamp with its back to the window. A thick male forearm hung over the side of the chair swirling ice cubes in a highball glass. The arm didn't belong in that house.

  Headlights swept across the yard.

  Pickett dropped to the ground behind a rangy hibiscus.

  A car pulled up to the front door.

  Picket crept to the back of the house and into the shadow of the azaleas that ringed the screened porch. Double doors opened onto it from the living room. The aluminum lawn chair that he'd upset the previous morning glinted in the secondhand light. A moment later, Ralph Kemp's shadow enveloped it like a shroud.

  Kemp stood with his back to Pickett, masking the man who'd taken Kemp's place in the armchair. Kemp was a little drunk, and a lot worried. He gestured with the highball glass, sloshing whiskey on the oriental rug. Kemp wheeled around suddenly and stepped onto the porch: “God damn amateurs.”

  Pickett dropped to the scrubby grass.

  Kemp stopped a yard from him on the other side of the screen. He turned back to the living room. “I'll tell you one thing, pal. There aint gonna be no more after this one unless you take care of your end. Christ, what the hell's going on up there, anyway?”

  The other man raised his voice: “We can't be held responsible for—”

  “Look, I'm delivering good shit—”

  “And getting a fair return.”

  Pickett's mouth turned up at the corners. The voice belonged to Matt Cheatham.

  “This fucking blood bath wasn't part of the bargain.” Kemp grunted as he dropped to the chaise longue that Jan had occupied earlier. “I got cops climbing up my ass for the last two days, man. And I keep thinking to myself, over and over again how what a coincidence it is that those two stiffs both worked for me.” The chaise creaked as Kemp turned. “Sort a sounds like a frame, don't it?”

  Matt was silent, but his footsteps sounded on the porch floor. Kemp rattled his ice cubes nervously. “Whattaya think, pal?”

  “We're in business, Ralph. We work the odds. What odds would you give us if we turned on you?”

  “Fuckin' short.”

  “Exactly. Don't you suppose I'm intelligent enough to see that?”

  “Yeah, you're smart all right. A regular smart ass.” Not even Kemp laughed. “Icing them two was just plain fuckin' stupid. If I'd wanted them dead, I could a fixed it so's nobody would even find them, much less connect them up with me. Sounds like amateur night shit to me.” Kemp pulled spittle to his tongue with a rasping sound. He spit on the floor. “Sounds like some smart ass stuck his pecker in the wrong hole is what it sounds like to me.”

  “I hope you don't mean to imply that I—that we had anything to do with those killings.” Matt paused, then added smoothly: “What could we possibly hope to gain?”

  “You aint gonna gain shit, cause the cops'll be all over us both till some fucker fries. You got that, Mister Brain? And I'll tell you one thing for goddamn sure, I aint gonna hang for nobody, least of all for you crazies. Christ, I ought a be strung up just for getting mixed up with you morons.”

  “Nobody will fry for anything if we stick to our bargain. You can't hold me responsible for the action of some homicidal maniac.”

  “It aint that Mooring clown that bothers me. It's that kid, what's-his-name—”

  “Mark.”

  “Yeah. Christ, that kid aint got enough balls to wipe his ass without his mommy's say-so. You really think he hit those two up in Belle Haven? Who you kidding?”

  “The police seem to think that he did it.”

  “And you're so smart you think that let's us off, huh?”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “That means I think we got major-league problems if they turn that kid. Where is he?”

  “I've no idea. He dropped out of sight a day or two ago.”

  “You best not be shitting me, cause if that kid's found you're the one got the big problem.”

  “If you mean to imply that—”

  “Come off it, for Chrissake. I don't know what sorta shit's going down up there, and I couldn't care less long as it don't interfere with business. But don't you play Mister Clean with me. If you wanna set that kid up, it's ace with me, but that kid hangs around here a lot. Stays up there with that shine, what's-his-face—”

  “Trap isn't a problem. He has an easy life here and isn't about to jeopardize it.”

  “Yeah, well what if that kid's a tad more curious, what then? And maybe it just won't be business that he talks about.”

  “Look, I've had just about enough of these innuendos. The victims were, as you yourself admitted, associated with you, not us. For all I know, you killed the both of them and set up Mark.”

  “You fucking—”

  “And frankly, I don't care. But, if you're planning to make trouble for us, remember that if you reveal our… our business relationship to the police—or anyone else for that matter—you will simply provide yourself with a motive, which, of course, is all the police would need to—to have you fry, as you put it. So I'd advise you not to threaten me.”

  “Yeah, well, I'd advise you to find some other source till this blows over. The shipment tonight's the last.”

  “We made a bargain. I've kept my end and I—we—expect you to keep yours. We have cash-flow problems at the moment and need continuous supply.”

  “Yeah, well you better have your problems some other time of the month, honey. And your cash best flow tonight or you'll be getting more than a few kee's for your—”

  “Look,” Matt sighed, “this is getting us nowhere. Now, when's the shipment scheduled to arrive?”

  “S'posed to be here in an hour. But those assholes—”

  “Good. Now let's calm down and wait. We haven't had any problems yet, and there's no reason to expect any. We'll talk about the future after things have settled down.”

  Kemp grunted. “The future?” The chaise scraped along the concrete. “Shit,” said Kemp, considering his future, “I need a drink.”

 
“Yes, I imagine that you do.”

  Their voices disappeared into the house and were lost in the rattle of the crickets. Pickett rose to his knees. The porch was empty. Kemp was back in the living room easy chair, staring down into an inch of whiskey as if it held portent of his future. Matt was nowhere in sight.

  Pickett crawled to the other side of the house, then sprinted to a hummock of palm and live oak behind the barn. From it he could see the dock and its ramshackle shed black against the grey St. Johns. He buttoned his collar against the mosquitoes, stretched his legs and leaned back against an oak. In his lap lay Tom's .38. Pickett's eyes blinked erratically, then slowly closed; his long body relaxed.

  #

  Light glinted off the river from the shed at the end of the dock. A boat, sleek, low to the river, bobbed in the mottled light. The low grumble of voices mingled with the lap of water and bumping of hull against pilings.

  Pickett started; the .38 slid from his lap, and he awoke with the thump. He blinked, gazed blankly around him, then focused on the light before him. He stuffed the pistol into his chinos and crawled deeper into the shadows. The scrub was thick but the moon too bright to chance moving into the open. He made way slowly.

  The curtain of moss that hung from the twisted oaks masked the dock. The shed was a yellow glow filtered as if through grey fog. At the river's edge, the palmetto scrub gave way to cypress, drowned oaks, and an unobstructed view. The hut was alive with light that knifed through the weathered clapboard and broken roof. It pulsated to the movement of figures inside.

  Pickett barked his shin against a cypress knee. He bit off a curse and knelt behind a tangled pile of driftwood, massaging his leg.

  The dock extended fifteen yards into the river as a T, with the shed perched precariously to the left and the speedboat moored to the right. Pickett glanced repeatedly from one end of the dock to the other, his body poised for motion.

  A hand fell lightly to his shoulder.

  Pickett twisted on the balls of his feet, still kneeling, and pulled frantically at the pistol with his good hand. He went over backwards with Mark's hand over his mouth and the barrel of Tom's revolver hopelessly tangled in the waistband of his trousers.