Shallow Graves (29 page)

“The kid’s nine or ten. What’s he going to know?”

“Sometimes,” Billy said, “you just don’t think.”

That was not exactly true. Bobby thought a lot. It was just that usually his thoughts weren’t helpful; they didn’t go anywhere. So he was happy to mix up batter and flip flapjacks like bones that sailed through the air in space movies and drill a deer’s shoulder from three hundred yards with a shot aimed through his Zeiss Diavari ’scope and keep the roadsides of Dutchess County free from any trash that had the slightest use and a lot of things that didn’t. Beyond that, okay, he left a lot of the thinking to Billy. Who couldn’t shoot and who couldn’t cook. And who, fuck him, didn’t like
National Geographic.

Billy said, “He could know a lot. Just ’cause he’s a kid doesn’t mean
he’s
stupid.”

Bobby, wondering if he’d been insulted: “So, what are you saying?”

But Billy answered by asking, “What do you think of the missus?”

Torrens. Meg Torrens. Had to be.

“I dunno,” Bobby said. “You going to eat your pudding?”

“Huh?”

“Your pudding?”

“I thought it was like a potato or something. Yeah, I’m gonna eat it.” Billy added, “Whatcha think about her?”

“I dunno.”

“She’s no hausfrau.”

“Hausfrau? What’s that? Like a Nazi?” Bobby pronounced it Nat-see.

“You think she has big tits?” Billy mused.

“I dunno. What’re you—?”

Billy asked, “What do you think about Torrens? I mean,
really
think?”

“Think about him?” Bobby often repeated his brother’s questions in a tone that made it sound like it was a dumb thing to ask—usually so he could buy time to figure out an answer.

Billy continued, “You think he’s smart?”

“Smart enough.”

Billy looked at his brother, then laughed. “What does that mean, ‘smart enough’? That’s like saying his dick is long enough.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, “he’s smart enough not to put his dick where it don’t belong. Which it sounds to me is what
you’re
considering doing.”

There, dude, how’s
that
for thinking?

“How much you think Torrens’s worth? How much you think he makes?”

“Man, you’re asking for—”

“Compared to what, let’s say, we, for instance, make?”

“—fucking trouble.”

Billy ate his pudding, every last bit. Bobby watched this with disappointment. He thought that thirteen ninety-five, which bought you a good-sized slab of wet, red prime rib, ought to buy you a little more in the English pudding department.

“They got themselves a real nice house,” Billy said, continuing this line of thought that Bobby didn’t quite get but knew he didn’t like.”

“It’s okay.”

Billy stared at his brother as if he’d just turned down playoff tickets. Bobby said, “Okay, it’s fucking wonderful. Happy?”

“Let’s just . . .” Billy began.

“I think you’re nuts is what I think.”

“. . . consider a possibility.”

SHE WAS WONDERING
where Pellam was. What he was up to.

Taking the whiskey, disappearing mysteriously like that.

Meg Torrens felt a brief splinter of jealousy, wondering if he’d gone off to see Janine. Then she forced that thought away. Said to herself: You got yourself a pretty full plate at the moment, babe.

Still . . .

That damn sound again. From the day they’d met in Pellam’s hospital room. The Polaroid.
Bzzzt.

For your information I’ve lived here five years . . .

She thought about him kissing her, about how she wanted to kiss him back.

Enough . . .

She tucked Sam into bed and went down to the kitchen, poured herself another glass of wine and was returning to the living room, turning the lights down. She’d had them up high while Pellam was here, despite her hatred of bright lights. Didn’t know why she’d done that . . . Okay, yes, she did. Less romantic. Less of a message. She—

A knock on the door.

She hoped it was Pellam but was afraid Ambler had returned. She recalled that he must have seen Pellam leave and wondered if Ambler had parked up the road and been spying on them, waiting for him to leave. To return and try his proposal yet again. How could such a strong man be so desperate?

I’m just not in the mood for this . . .

But when she opened the door she found the sheriff standing on the front porch.

“Tom.”

“Evening, Meg.”

She felt a jolt. “Is Keith okay?”

“Oh, I’m not here about him.”

“Pellam?”

“Not him either. Mind if I come in?”

He was grave but then he was always grave. She nodded him in, setting the wine on a nearby breakfront. He walked inside, pulling off his hat the instant his boot touched the threshold.

“Coffee or anything?”

He shook his head. Sat down on the couch.

“What is it?”

“Just wanted to ask you a thing’r two about Sam. You know he left Sunday school for a while this morning.”

What was this?

“I didn’t know that was a crime,” she said stiffly.

“Did you know about Sam? Would you tell me please?”

She opted for the truth but it was a close election. “Yes. Keith told me. They tried to call me here but I was out. They called him at the factory. Sam came back after a few minutes.”

“After forty-five minutes.”

“What is this all about, Tom?”

“And you talked to Sam about it?”

“Of course.” The sheriff said nothing more and Meg felt compelled to continue. “He’d won a football at the festival and lost it when he . . . got sick. He went looking for it.” She was rambling and stopped. “I want to know what you’re asking.”

Tom nodded. “Meg, not long after he left the church Ned Harper was killed. It was a mile away—that’s a bit of a hike but he could’ve made it in the time he was gone.”

“Ned? What does Sam have to do with Ned?”

“We think Ned was the one gave him those pills. And we think Sam might’ve killed him.”

“No,” she said firmly.

“We don’t know for sure. But it’d make sense for Ned to’ve threatened the boy. You saw how scared he was. And it’d make sense for Sam to want to get even.”

“Sam wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

“Ned was killed with a small-caliber. Might be a .22. We haven’t got the slugs yet. Randy Gottschalk, my deputy, he was telling me that Keith got Sam a .22 last Christmas.”

Her eyes strayed to the den—where the small Winchester usually resided. Her heart jumped when she noticed it was gone. But then she remembered that Sam and Pellam had been shooting that afternoon. Had they been using the .22? Or the little shotgun? Maybe they were on the back porch, awaiting cleaning. Or the basement. The only gun in the cabinet was the antique breech-loading Springfield—the
only surviving bequest from her parents, other than the intense dislike of bright lights.

“Tom, you’ve known Sam since he was born. You think he’s capable of killing somebody?”

“I don’t, no. But I’m not the only one going to be asking. We’ve already had more’n our share of trouble in Cleary—those deaths last year, a couple of other overdoses. The state police’re going to be handling this one. And they’re going to want to talk to Sam and check out his gun. Run some ballistics.”

“What that’ll prove is that he’s not the one.” But even as she said these words a terrible doubt was forming. No, her son was incapable of killing anyone.

Yet she remembered his face today—when he was shooting with Pellam. It looked so determined. So adult. Scary, at times.

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s asleep.”

Tom smiled, looked past her. “Doesn’t seem to be.”

Sam was standing in the hallway, in his pajamas, staring at the sheriff uneasily.

“I heard a noise.”

“Hi, Sam. How you doing?”

“Hi, Sheriff.”

“You feeling better?”

“Yessir, I am.”

“You must’ve heard me. Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep. I heard you come in. This was a different noise. Outside my window.”

Meg was looking at his round, sleepy face. She thought: No, he’d never kill anyone. Yet . . . His eyes seemed so cold. He seemed so different. She struggled to smile. “Honey, it’s probably that owl. Remember.”

“Wasn’t the owl.”

Meg was thinking: Where is that .22? But, no, he
couldn’t
have done it.

Tom stood. “How ’bout I take a look?”

“I guess,” Sam said.

“Tom—” Meg began.

In a whisper the sheriff said, “Okay, Meg, tell you what. I’ll come by tomorrow. You and Keith’ll be here and you can have a lawyer too, you want. Okay?”

She nodded.

Tom put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and they started up the stairs. “Now let’s check out that noise.”

“I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in,” Meg called.

Where was that gun? She had to find it.

She was halfway to the back porch when the gunshot, from upstairs, shook the house.

A scream burst from her lips. She ran to the stairs and leapt out of the way just as Tom stumbled down them, a terrible wound in his chest.

“I . . .” He glanced at her with unfocused eyes, crawled toward the front door. He got three or four feet. Then dropped to the floor, lay still. Blood soaked the carpet.

“Jesus . . . Sam!” She started up the stairs again.

For a terrible moment she believed that her son had done it all—killed Ned and then lured the sheriff up to the second floor to kill him. And felt too that it was all her fault—for her infidelity, for her not being grateful for the wonderful life Keith had given her.

But then the boy appeared on the stairs, running in panic, tears streaming down his face.

“There was a man! He hurt Sheriff Tom. He shot him!”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He was at the window. I’m scared. . . .”

Then she heard the noise.

Coming from the basement, the sound reminded her of the time she’d pulled apart an old lettuce crate for the wood, using a claw hammer to pry the nails. The loud squeal from the rusty friction.

Then a snap and the tinkle of glass on stone.

The basement window.

“Mommy! It’s him. He’s there. He’s in the—”

“Shhh.”

Meg ran to the basement door. She locked a small brass latch and grabbed the telephone. The line was dead. She tapped the button.

Silence.

She glanced at Tom but the pistol was no longer in his holster. He must have dropped it somewhere or the intruder had stolen it.

“Sam, where are those guns you and Mr. Pellam were shooting?”

“I don’t—”

“Sam, it’s okay, honey. It’s going to be fine. Where are the guns?”

He gasped in fear. “I put them in the basement. We were going to clean them. He said he didn’t want me to by myself.”

“All right, baby.”

She led him to the first-floor guest room, which was windowless. She put him inside. “You lock the door when I close it. And don’t open it for anybody but Daddy or me.”

“I’m scared.”

Hugging him hard. So hard it seemed that she’d never be able to let go. “You’ll be all right. I promise.”

She closed the door and heard it lock.

Meg sprinted into the den, tore open the gun cabinet door. The carbine, smelling of oil and sulfur, was in her hand. The hundred-year-old Springfield (
breechloader, not muzzle-loader. . . .
Oh, Pellam where are you?) The saddle ring jingled as she blew dust off the brown metal barrel.

She found a dozen of the long, heavy shells, put one in the chamber and the rest in her sweater pocket. She closed the breech with a snap and ran into the hall.

On the first floor she checked the front and back doors. They were locked. The windows on the ground floor? She usually kept them locked but had she aired the house recently? She couldn’t remember and she wasn’t going to check now.

She paused, heard delicate scraping sounds. Metal and wood being adjusted. She walked to the kitchen. Slow, determined. Okay, asshole, she thought. With both hands pulled the hammer to half-cock.

Footsteps were coming up the stairs.

Meg clicked out the kitchen light. She took a deep breath, reached forward, undid the latch and swung the door open wide. She stepped back so fast she almost tripped.

The man was three-quarters up the stairs. She couldn’t see his face. He stopped. There was a laugh of surprise. He held a flashlight in his hand. His
high, playful voice—vaguely familiar—said, “Meter reader.”

Meg said, “I’ve got a gun. One more step and you’re dead.”

The light beam started to sweep toward her.

“Shine that light in my eyes and you’re dead.”

“Risky place, this house.”

“What do you want?” She tried to keep her voice from quivering.

“Just passing Go. Looking for my two hundred. But seriously, folks. . . . Tell you what, just let me wander out and we’ll let it go at that.”

“I want you to lie facedown on the floor.”

He laughed. “Uh, nothing personal but it’s not real clean. And there might be spiders. I don’t like spiders.”

“Now!” With one thumb she managed to put the gun on full cock. The click reverberated through the kitchen.

He took a step down the stairs. He was debating. Then he said, “Don’t think so. Thanks for the offer but I believe what I’ll do is leave. Keep the jewelry, the silver. Wasn’t my pattern anyway. Hey, just want to say . . .”

She held the gun up to her shoulder, started to squeeze the trigger.

He took another two slow steps into the darkness. “. . . dinner smells great, lady. Sorry I couldn’t stay. Maybe some other time.”

Now! Do it!

Her finger was frozen on the trigger.
Shoot, shoot, shoot. . . .

The man disappeared.

“Shit.”

She slammed the door, slipped the latch, and heard him running through the basement. She sprinted to the front of the house. She peered out through the lace curtains beside the door. She couldn’t see anyone.

Hell, hell, hell. Where is he? Where’d he go?

Pellam, she thought, please come home. . . .