Silent Witness (24 page)

But was it wise, to hide?

Shouldn’t he pretend to be casual, just talking to a friend, when the chimes began?

“Listen, you—you’d better call me in—” Once more, he looked at his watch. Quarter to five. “You’d better—why don’t you call me in—”

The chimes sounded.

“Call me in a half hour, forty minutes. After Fowler’s gone.” Why was he whispering?
Why?

“Okay.” A moment’s pause. Then: “Are you all right, Dennis?”

In the intersecting hallway, Maria was clumping toward the front door. She was displeased that her preparations for dinner were interrupted. He could hear it in the way she walked.

“I—call me back. Drive this way. Not here. Not to Saint Stephen. Near, though. Then call again.” He broke the connection, cradled the telephone, drew a deep, unsteady breath. Should he step across the hall to the dining room, take a quick drink before he—

Voices. Fowler’s voice. Maria’s voice.

Too late.

He stepped quickly around the corner, replaced the phone on the table—feigned surprise: “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Mr. Price—” Fowler nodded his boar’s head, his multiple chins disappearing in rings of fat. Without being told, Maria turned away, clumped back to the kitchen. Extending his hand, Price met the sheriff at the archway to the living room. Fowler’s grip was soft and flabby, disinterested.

“Come in.” Price gestured to the living room. Grunting something unintelligible, Fowler entered the living room. Without hesitation, without being invited, he sat on the same leather couch John had been lying on the night Connie died.

Was it intentional, that Fowler chose the leather couch? Part of a carefully calculated plan, the opening shot in the law’s campaign of harassment?

In minutes, he would know. Somehow it had all come down to minutes now.

Choosing a chair that faced the sheriff, he knew he must wait for the other man to speak first. It was essential, that he wait. The lord of the manor was his role. Fowler’s role was the serf, tugging at his forelock.

“How’s your harvest looking, Mr. Price? Up to last year’s?”

Ah—first the pleasantries, of course, the disarming little questions. Fowler was a devious man, a shrewd man. A man easy to underestimate. Dangerously easy to underestimate.

“The chardonnay’s looking good. It’s too early to tell about the others.”

“Everyone seems to be saying that. It’s a chardonnay year by the looks of it.”

Price nodded. “I’d say so. Yes.”

Gravely, Fowler nodded. The gesture signaled the end of the pleasantries.

“I’ve just had a talk with Cliff Benson today, Mr. Price. He’s the county attorney, you know.”

Price nodded.

“And Cliff, Mr. Benson, seems to feel that we should be taking a fresh look at the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death.”

“A—” Suddenly his throat closed. Then: “A fresh look?”

“Right. Benson feels that maybe we missed something.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Well—” Fowler waved a pudgy hand in a short, thick-armed arc. “Well, maybe ‘missed something’ isn’t exactly the right wording. What I mean is—what Benson means—is that, with so much happening so fast, that night, we might’ve cut a few corners. Especially—” The sheriff paused, for emphasis. “Especially, we’re thinking of John. I mean, naturally, no one wanted to press the boy, under the circumstances. But when you think about it, with the exception of yourself, John was the only other person present in the house when the crime was committed—outside of the murderer, that is. So it’s possible he might’ve seen something—heard something, whatever—that could open a few doors for us. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Well, I—I—” Helplessly, he shook his head. Then: “No, I wouldn’t say so, as a matter of fact. I mean, John’s already told you everything he knows. He told you that night, when Connie was—” He broke off, shook his head, lapsed into sudden silence.

“Well, that’s true. Everything I asked him, he answered, no question.” Fowler spoke equably. Fat-man-relaxed, hands folded across the tooled-leather equipment belt that girdled his enormous stomach, Fowler nodded genially, as if to encourage his victim. “But the thing is, you see, maybe there were some questions I didn’t ask. See what I mean?”

“Well, that’s—yes, I see what you mean. But the thing is—the problem is—I don’t want John going back over that night. It’s been two months now—more than two months. And John’s just starting to come out of it, act like himself. So if you were to start questioning him again, well—” He spread his hands. “Well, it would be dangerous. Very dangerous, for John.”

“Hmmm …” As if he were considering the point, Fowler frowned, nodded, squinted thoughtfully. Then: “Well, I certainly agree that it
could
be dangerous. So, of course, I’ll be careful when I talk to him. But the thing is—the bottom line—I’ve got to talk to John. See, investigations like this—capital crimes, like this—it’s pretty much required that we interrogate a witness at least twice. Like I said, at the crime scene, everyone’s groping in the dark, you might say, trying to figure out what happened. But then, later, you’ve got to go back, pick up the pieces, sort things out. In fact—” Fowler raised one hand from his stomach, gesturing. “In fact, I’ll be wanting to talk to you, too.” The pursed lips curved in a fatuous smile. “You won’t object, will you?”

“Well—well, no. Certainly not. It’s just John, that I’m concerned about.”

As if he sympathized, Fowler nodded. Then he shrugged, regretfully shaking his head. When he spoke, his eyes were cold, his voice was flat: “Sorry, Mr. Price, but it’s got to be done. Orders.” Fowler levered himself forward on the couch, ready to rise to his feet. “So if you’ll just find John for me, and give us fifteen or twenty minutes together, we’ll get it over and done with. That’s the best way, you know. Just do it. And they’re never as bad as you think they’ll be, these things. After all, I’m not going to browbeat John, nothing like that. We’ll just talk.”

Just talk …

In court, the lawyers just talked.

The judge just talked, handing down the sentence.

Would the executioner just talk, as he dropped the cyanide capsules in the acid beneath the chair?

With great effort, he looked away from the other man’s eyes: pig eyes, sunk deep in a pig’s face.

Should he refuse permission?

The innocent talked willingly to the police. Only the guilty refused. The fifth amendment, refuge of scoundrels.

His eyes, he realized, were fixed on the window that looked out on the broad green lawn, circled by the white gravel driveway.

Less than an hour ago, John and Al had ridden down the driveway on their mountain bikes. Their fishing poles had been lashed to Martelli’s bike. He stole a glance at his wristwatch. Almost five. At six o’clock, promptly, Maria served dinner. If Martelli took John for an outing, on the acreage or off, Martelli never failed to have John home by six. It was a house rule.

“I—” He began to shake his head. “I don’t think John’s here, right now. He—I haven’t seen him for hours.”

“Where’d he go?” It was an innocent question—elaborately, fatuously innocent. “You must know where he is—don’t you?” The implication was clear: a “no” answer would admit to child neglect.

“Well, I—yes, of course, I know. I mean, I know he’s on the property—the acreage. But I don’t know where, exactly.”

“Is someone with him?”

There it was: the make-or-break question, asked so softly, so guilelessly.

“I—yes, of course someone’s with him. Al’s with him, I think. Al Martelli. But they could be anywhere. They might even’ve gone into town.”

“I thought you said John stayed on the property.” The other man pretended elaborate puzzlement.

“Well, not if he’s with Al. Then, of course, they go anywhere. But when he’s not with Al, then he has to stay on the—” Suddenly his voice died. Had he made a mistake, contradicted himself? Fowler’s face offered no clue, and a sharp, taut silence fell between them.

Finally Fowler spoke: “Seems like we should be looking for Al, then. Wouldn’t you say?” Suddenly Fowler heaved himself to his feet. “I believe I’ll have a look around, see if I can find them. That all right?” Moving forward, Fowler stood over him, a mountainous presence, implacable, a menace in wrinkled, sweat-stained khaki.

“Well, I—” Aware that his movements were uneven, out of phase, Price rose. They stood chest to chest, too close. “I’d better go with you.”

“No need. I can find my way.”

“No.”

Fowler’s brow furrowed. “No?” He said it gently, regretfully. “No?”

“I—I don’t want you to talk to John unless I’m there. I’m sorry, but that—that’s just the way it is.”

“Ah—” Fowler nodded. Then he smiled. It was a strangely complacent smile. Cat-and-mouse content. “So that’s the way it is …” He nodded. Then, very softly: “I see.”

“It—it’s just that—”

Fowler raised a hand. “I can see how it is, Mr. Price. No need to explain.”

He made no reply. Should he order Fowler off the property, pretend to outraged innocence? Experimentally, he cleared his throat, lifted his chin, stiffened his back. “It’s not a question of—”

“Tell you what,” Fowler interrupted bruskly. “Why don’t the two of you—you and John—come in to the office tomorrow morning. Say, ten o’clock. I’ll talk to Benson in the meantime. How’s that sound?”

“Ten o’clock—” He licked his lips. Then, anything to get rid of Fowler before Theo called again, he nodded. “Yes. Ten o’clock. That’ll be fine. Just fine.”

“T
HAT’S THE HAYMOW, UP
there—” John pointed. “The only way you can get up is that ladder—” He pointed again. “There used to be stairs, but they got rotten.” As he spoke, he was aware that his aunt was turning to follow his gesture. For as long as he could remember, his Aunt Janice had always listened when he talked to her, and looked where he pointed. Once he’d heard his parents talking about his Aunt Janice. “It’s a shame she hasn’t married,” his mother had said. “She was meant to have children.”

Whenever he’d been with his mother and Aunt Janice, he always felt the friendship, how much they liked each other, his mother and his aunt. “She raised me,” his mother had said once. It had been a long time ago, maybe more than a year. They’d been on the beach at Santa Barbara, the three of them. Always, the beach at Santa Barbara had been one of his favorite places. His mother and his aunt had been talking about the things they’d done when they were his age. When she’d been seven, his mother had said, his Aunt Janice had been thirteen. And when his mother was ten, his aunt had been sixteen. That, they’d agreed, had been a big difference. Why, he’d asked, was the difference between ten and sixteen bigger than the difference between seven and thirteen? His aunt and his mother had smiled at each other, one of those special smiles between grown-ups, for special secrets.

“Boys,” his mother had said. “Boys were the difference.” And they’d laughed, the two of them, their eyes sparkling. Then his aunt had suddenly reached for him, and mussed up his hair. So he’d laughed too—the three of them, laughing.

“You want to go up in the hay?” he asked.

His aunt’s eyes came alive: the same sparkle she’d shared with his mother so very long ago, the same grownup twinkle. But then her eyes changed—and her smile, too.

“Sure,” she said. “Great.” But then, as she eyed the ladder, she said, “Do you think it’ll hold me?”

He, too, turned toward the ladder. “I guesso.”

“You guess so, eh?” The smile widened. “Well, let’s see. You go first. In case I fall.”

“Don’t you want to?” he asked.

“Yes …” Now she was chuckling.
“Yes,
I
want
to. You know how girls are. We weren’t trained to climb.”

Aware that this was another grown-up joke, he strode to the ladder and began climbing. Moments later he stood on the platform, looking down.

What if the ladder broke? How would he get down, if it broke?

He was looking down at the top of his aunt’s head. She was coming up the ladder slowly, cautiously, testing every step.

What if it
did
break?

What if his aunt fell, and hit her head, and was knocked out? What if she was bleeding, and would die, if he couldn’t get help? Minutes would count. Seconds, even. So he would lower himself over the edge of the platform, and hang by his fingers. He would drop to the ground beside his aunt. Her eyelids would be fluttering, her lips quivering. “Get help,” she would whisper. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

He would hug her, and tell her not to worry, leave everything to him. Then he would run outside, get on his bike, ride as fast as he could to Al’s house. Al would be gone, but he’d know what to do. He’d dial 911, the way his mother had taught him. And pretty soon he’d hear the siren coming. There’d be a white ambulance, with red lights flashing, and two men wearing uniforms, with badges. They’d—

Her head was even with the platform, then her shoulders. He backed away, giving her room to climb up on the platform.

“Wow—” She sat up, breathing deeply. She was still smiling, this smile especially for him, their secret.
“Wow.
I think I’ll start working out.” Now she looked behind him, at the hay. As she did, her smile changed, this time to something private. She spoke softly, her eyes far away. “My God, real hay.” A pause, also something very private. Then, quietly: “When I was a little girl—ten years old, maybe—we had a farm in the Santa Ynez valley. It was wonderful, that farm. I showed it to you, once. Do you remember? It was two years ago, maybe, that I showed it to you.”

“Yes,” he answered. “I remember. You told me you had horses, when your folks had the farm.”

Slowly, she nodded. “That we did. Four horses. I was always a little afraid of them, to tell the truth.”

“We’ve got two horses, here. Sometimes we go riding, me and Al—”

“You and Al—” She said it as if it meant something special. As she spoke, she turned to look at him. Like the smile, this look was just for him.

He decided to say, “Sometimes I’m a little afraid of horses, too.”

She nodded. Now her smile changed again, as if she was sad. Slowly, she stretched out her hand, touched his hair. Then she gently mussed his hair, just like she’d done at the beach, so long ago. Then, still sitting, legs propped up, arms circling her knees, she turned to face him squarely. She spoke gently. Serious now, but still gently: