Some People Die Quick

by JC Simmons

  "That's what I'm saying. If Sabado had not been killed, we would have been certain that he and Vickey were the guilty parties. It would have been their word against George's."

  "This is all so circumstantial," Guy said. "We've got no proof."

  "Maybe we don't need it. Maybe I can force his hand."

  "How is this going to effect Randolph?" Guy asked.

  Randolph Lenoir, George's father. He is a close friend to both of us.

  "That will be rough."

  In the west, the thunderstorm flashed its last lightening bolt and dissipated into the night sky.

  Later, alone with my thoughts, I felt a jolt of blinding anger, painful, single, and sudden, like the electric shock of the lightening bolt in the thunderstorm. The anger exploded out of the knowledge that one cannot deal with pure evil.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dawn rose hot and muggy, like a mid-August day. I could hardly breathe the air, dense, motionless, smelling of dead things and live things growing out of the dead things. Dressing, I opened the portholes, as the boat was stuffy. Now and then, as boats in the harbor rocked gently, halyards chimed against aluminum masts.

  Anna rose at false dawn and climbed out the forward hatch so as not to disturb me. The hatch was squeaking again, and it woke me with the awful thought of a beautiful young woman lying in her own coagulating blood, trachea exposed, and all signs of life gone.

  Opening the companionway hatch, I saw Anna sitting with her back to me, looking across the wide grass lawn of the marina toward the calm sea.

  "Good morning," I said quietly, not wanting to startle her. Easing up, I sat on the portside of the cockpit.

  She half turned, her smile gone. She had a strange, pleading look that I had seen in her face before, a look that seemed made of serenity and courage. Her shoulders were shaking as if she was cold, but the air was warm.

  "I thought of Susan all night, how she died all alone in that cramped vee-birth. I wondered what her last thoughts were as the lifeblood drained away, the last breaths coming in frothy gasps. Did she know that I was somehow responsible?" She turned and looked at me, her whole body shaking like some giant being was jerking her in anger. "I'm sorry, Jay. I guess sleeping on board Picaroon brought it all back."

  I put an arm around her. "It's okay, I understand."

  She looked back and forth as if trying to locate something. "It is hot this morning. The Biloxi Indians have a word for this weather. They call it Bashira. It is an evil day. The fish will not bite; the bears stay deep in the river swamp, and the deer hide. It is a day to offer appeasement to the God of the sea, land, and the big rivers. They believe the last day of summer steals back into spring, trying to hide from winter. When the weather turns cool again, it will be time to plant the corn. It is a day bad things happen.”

  "A scientist like yourself believes in myths?" Thinking of her Tiburon lore, I was trying to lighten the moment.

  Anna looked at me with tears forming on the once beautiful face. "Vickey told me the story of Bashira. It was a good story, the way she told it. There were happy, peaceful times ahead when the last day of summer was found and carried back to its rightful place."

  "All folklore should have a happy ending. How about we walk around to the marina restaurant and have some coffee?"

  "We can make it here, on the boat."

  "The walk will do us good."

  "Yes," Anna said, looking at me with deep understanding. "The walk will do us good."

  We took a table in the corner next to the window on the west side. Anna sat looking toward the shoreline. The one fathom markers, running parallel to the man-made beach, now useless due to the constant washing of the sand, stretched out of sight in the hazy dawn. Only the tall, ungainly buildings of the new casinos were visible. The coffee was hot, black and strong. Anna cheered some, the caffeine restoring energy to us both.

  Hebrone Opshinsky walked in and sat at the counter. He turned and looked over the restaurant. The dye was gone from his hair. There were only two other people, a couple off a transit sailboat, in the dining room. He looked straight at me, then turned away. Anna had her back to him. He finished his coffee and left without so much as a wave.

  We stayed in the restaurant for an hour. Keeping the conversation away from George Lenoir, I wasn't sure myself how to proceed with proving him guilty. Whatever way, it had better be the right one.

  "What's your next move? Are you going to bring in the local police?"

  "Guy is checking to see what agency has jurisdiction. It could be local, state, or federal. We don't want the authorities involved until things are clear. You understand?"

  "No, but I'll leave it up to you and Guy."

  Stopping by the cash register to pay the bill while Anna went to the restroom, the cashier, a familiar looking woman, handed me a folded restaurant check. I opened it up. It read: "See the Yillah woman back to Picaroon. Come to Pilar; slip 12 before ten a.m. Important. Hebrone."

  Anna came out of the restroom. I folded the note and put it in my pocket.

  Back aboard the boat, I made an excuse for an errand.

  It was a little before ten o'clock when I arrived at slip 12. There was a dark, mahogany-colored sportfisherman of about forty feet moored in the slip. It was a wooden boat with outriggers, and it was very old. The first thing you noticed was the pristine condition, wood polished, brightwork glistening, lines neatly tied and precisely coiled. The name, Pilar, was mounted across the stern on a hand-carved piece of rough two by twelve inch lumber that looked older than the boat.

  "Come aboard, Leicester."

  Gingerly stepping down into the cockpit, I was careful not to mar the deck. Below in the cabin it was dark. The companionway ladder was steep, and I felt my way carefully until touching the cabin sole.

  "Your eyes will adjust. I like it dark, keeps the world out."

  Hebrone was seated on the portside behind a small table. Next to him was a huge dog. He rubbed its head while it looked at me with fiery eyes. "Don't worry about Savage. He only kills when told to do so."

  "Nice boat," I said standing perfectly still. "Wheeler, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sit down."

  "What year?"

  "Thirty-four."

  "You keep it in good shape."

  "Thanks. Let's talk, Leicester."

  He was a stocky man with a homely, angular face. A hint of a smile remained in his features at all times, particularly when he listened. It was a look of good-natured amusement, as if he were discarding the irrelevant in the words he heard and going straight to the point a moment ahead of the speaker.

  "You asked me here. You talk."

  "Paper says the Fourche girl drowned."

  "There was salt water in her lungs and a lot of alcohol in the blood."

  "Alcohol ain't why she drowned."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "I told you Lenoir was your boy."

  "So what does that have to do with Vickey drowning?"

  "She drowned because Lenoir held her head under water."

  "How would you know that bit of information?"

  "I watched him do it."

  "You what?"

  "No," he said reading my mind. "There was nothing I could have done to stop it. I waited until he went back to the house and was asleep before I woke you."

  "You'll testify?"

  "Don't think so. I wanted you to know how it went down."

  "Anything else you care to pass on while I'm here?"

  "No."

  "You're a good man, Hebrone. You could have kept quiet. Thanks. You need anything?"

  "No."

  Standing to leave, I reached to pet the dog. It was a mistake. If it had not been for Hebrone I would have lost a hand.

  "Shepherd?"

  "Wolf, from Alaska. Got him as a pup. Mama killed by the government."

  On the way back to Picaroon, I thought that Hebrone was a man of few words, but those he spoke meant a lot.

  Halfway
back, I froze in my tracks. Anna was right, Vickey knew George was the one. That's what she meant the night she got drunk, ranting and raving to Anna about somebody being a liar and lying, and syllogism. Deductive reasoning, she did the same thing I had been doing and came to the same conclusion. She knew about Sabado and George. That's why she threw the cognac bottle at George's head. He realized she knew, so he had to kill her.

  Hastening my walk toward Picaroon in the heat caused sweat to pour profusely from me by the time I turned the corner at the bathhouse. I could see Anna still sitting in the cockpit looking seaward. She had not moved since I left.

  A half-mile out, arching in a slow turn into the Broadwater channel was a small boat. The Mako and driver were easily recognizable. It was George Lenoir. Breaking into a trot, I wanted to get back to Picaroon before he did.

  Anna spotted him and looked around for me. I waved.

  Easing into the slip, George threw me a line. I made it fast to a cleat.

  Climbing aboard, he said, "I found something at the lab you both might want to see."

  With one big meaty hand, he handed me a white sheet of paper neatly typed, single spaced and signed by Vickey Fourche on the day she died. I read it slowly.

  No evil is honorable, but death is honorable, therefore death is not evil. And now I onward haste to my own last night, for times fatal wings do ever forward fly. So every day we live, a day we die. Bob and I meant no harm. Forgive us, Anna. Good-bye. Vickey.

  The quote was a familiar one, but I could not remember from where. Clever, George, I thought, handing the note to Anna. She read it with tears running down her cheeks.

  "Where did you find this?" I asked George, who was standing with his head bowed, eyes looking at the dock.

  "In the lab. It was in a file folder of Vickey's, along with some copies of Anna's research on the repellent. Looked like she'd been making copies of Anna's notes and studying them. Probably thought she could finish the project herself if Anna were eliminated."

  "You bring the folder?"

  "No," He looked surprised. "I didn't think it necessary."

  Stepping up close to him so that he would have to look me directly in the eyes, I said, "I'll go back with you. Maybe there are other files that we overlooked."

  "You don't need to do that. I've searched carefully. There is nothing else. I've been over the lab with a fine tooth comb." He reached a wide hand up and ran it through his blond crew cut. "I'll run the file folder over in the morning. It'll give me a break from the solitude. It's lonely out there."

  Not nearly as lonely as a prison cell, I thought.

  He started for the Mako. I untied the line and jumped aboard. He looked up and frowned.

  "I want to have a look. All my gear is still on the island. I'll pick it up and the folder. Guy and Anna can run over tomorrow and get me. Let's go." I waved him away from the dock.

  He shrugged big shoulders and started the engine with a smile; it was a thin smile, amused and cold.

  "Call Guy, Anna," I yelled as we backed out into the harbor. "Tell him what I'm doing and see if he can pick me up tomorrow. Call on the radio tonight, let me know?"

  She nodded and waved, a confused and frightened expression on her face.

  George ran the Mako flat out on the trip across to Cat Island. There was an expert competence in his manner of working the boat. His movements were easy, and intelligently economical. He had a lean face and sun-bleached hair that blended in tone with the cold blue of his eyes. Somewhere beyond his look of courteous sternness there was a note of evil, so faint that it vanished if one tried to discern it.

  The Mississippi Sound was mirror calm, the ride smooth, but the wind was hot and sticky. Bashira, a day the fish don't bite and bad things happen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We tied the Mako to the pier below the house and walked up the narrow, winding path. Appearing suddenly at the end of the pine thicket, the house still amazed me. It was a good house, a place in which I could spend the rest of my life. Why the original owners would abandon such a utopian setting was beyond my comprehension.

  Following George inside the house, I thought that the quasi-suicide note purportedly written by Vickey was certainly something he had worked up himself. My feeling was that no file folder existed. He would have to create one now.

  When I suggested we go to the lab and look at the folder and search for any other evidence against Vickey and Sabado, George quickly came up with the idea to search Vickey's room first. It was only a little after four o'clock. I wondered what diversions he had planned for the rest of the afternoon?

  Following George into Vickey's room, I thought that this should not take long, but he stretched it out for over an hour, dismantling the bed, emptying drawers, taking the medicine cabinet from the wall and looking between studs and the wood paneling. Finally there was nothing left to search. He was putting on a good show.

  "You know," George said, scratching his head. "I've been thinking about the note Vickey left. The quote, I've seen it before, maybe in one of the books in the den. Want to go look?"

  "Sure."

  One whole wall of the den was covered with books. Most were scientific texts on chemistry and marine biology, but there was a section devoted to seafaring tales, poetry and fiction. There was a Rockwell Kent illustrated copy of Moby Dick, an ear-worn paperback of THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA. Next to it was a small hardback book of quotations. Clearly marked were pages showing the quote from Vickey's note. Too easy, George.

  He made a big deal of me finding and reading the passage. Sliding the little volume back on the shelf, I pulled Hemingway's book out and thumbed through the pages. "You ever read this novella, George?" I held up the book.

  He squinted from across the room. "THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA? Yeah, a couple of times. Why?"

  "It's a story about how one man, alone, can beat the world."

  "The sharks beat that old man. He should have had more sense than to fish alone for the big fish. He lost in the end. No way he was going to get home with a fish bigger than his skiff."

  "I'm not sure the old man lost." I threw the book on a table and sat down in one of the big leather chairs in front of the fireplace.

  George did not smile. He asked, his face blank, his voice smooth, but with a measured hint of harshness, "So what's your point?"

  "There is no point. I merely believe that if a man makes up his mind to do something, and does that thing, regardless of all else, he wins. Even if things don't come out the way he wants, he still wins, because he did not fail. Fate failed him."

  George shook his head, got up and paced the floor. "He still lost the fish. I don't think he won."

  "I'm going to pack my gear."

  "That old man didn't win."

  I did not argue anymore.

  Everything was as I had left it. Checking under the mattress, I found that my old magnum was still there, fastened to the bottom of the springs by the clip on the leather holster.

  A strange feeling came over me that George and I were in a play, both knowing our parts, unable to change the acts as they unfolded, and already knew the ending. It was a role I was familiar with, had starred in all too often.

  Back in the den George said, with resignation, "It's almost dark. We might as well wait until morning before starting the search at the lab. Are you sure you want to wade through all those files?"

  So this was going to be the game, young George. You wait until the old man is fast asleep, then sneak down to the lab and make up a file folder, maybe even plant a few other bits of incriminating evidence. Your theory being that absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence.

  "We can wait until tomorrow, and yes, we'll wade through all the files."

  A sigh of relief showed on his face then went to a strange expression that resembled weariness. "Suit yourself. How about some cognac? I'm sure you have one of those big cigars here on the island?"

  "Cognac's fine. You are right, I'm never without one
of my fifty-four ring, long filler, Ernesto P. Carrillos' Charlemagnes."

  He laughed and went for the cognac. Carefully cutting the end off the cigar, I slowly lit it with a wooden match, watching the smoke curl upward toward the open ceiling.

  * * *

  Lying in the darkened room listening to the night noises of the island, I fought off the sedative effect of the alcohol. It was a hard fight, but a battle I must win.

  Hearing the sound I knew would come, the adrenaline flowed, and I was no longer sleepy. My door opened and George eased in quietly. He stood at the foot of the bunk for five minutes. I forced myself to breathe deeply and regularly. Satisfied, he moved silently away. Two boards squeaked as he went down the hall. Then there was the familiar sound of the screen door on the eastside porch. My watch glowed three-fifteen a.m. I would follow in ten minutes.

  The magnum felt familiar. Slipping it from the leather holster, I checked the six rounds in the cylinder then closed and locked it in place. Remembering the chill the night Vickey died, I put on a shirt.

  Pausing for a minute on the porch steps, I felt the oppressive heat. The air was still and muggy. I did not need the shirt. The familiar white shell path leading to the lab glowed in the early morning darkness like some evil path leading to ugliness. Bashira.

  The crunch my feet made along the path sounded as loud as thunder. Crabs scurried away. Hebrone Opshinsky entered my thoughts. Oh to have his ability for stealth.

  The gentle slap of the surf echoed through the darkness long before I could see it. Suddenly I was at the edge of the pine thicket. Before me stretched the gray sand beach. Beyond it, across the black depths of the sea, the dim glow of the coastline glimmered like a sunrise.

  Sweat poured down my face and ran in rivulets along my back. Off to my left stood the white lab. There was no light coming from inside. Had I waited too long? Was I mistaken thinking George would come to the lab? Had he gone across the Sound to get at Anna? My mind raced in a near panic.

  Then I saw it, a flash of light like a beacon from a lighthouse. George was using a flashlight. His familiarity enabled him to move easily about in the dark, use the light only when the need arose.

  Even though there was no moon, and the haze held in by the high pressure system stalled over the coast dimmed the stars, there was too much reflecting light from the sand for me to cross the beach undetected. Hugging the dunes to the south, I crossed the beach out of sight of the lab, then worked my way up along the water's edge. It took longer, but afforded the best cover.