Silent Witness (28 page)

Bernhardt raised his revolver. Should he cock the gun, risk the sound of two metallic clicks? Single-action shooting was more accurate than double action. Slower, but more accurate.

But double action gave no warning, was therefore safer.

He took his thumb from the hammer, raised the revolver slightly, lined up the sights on the woman’s head, then lowered them to the body.

Two paces.

A bullet, ripping into that beautiful predator’s body—could he do it, pull the trigger?

With his left hand Bernhardt cautioned John, gestured for him to remain motionless.

Moving a single step beyond the truck, inching forward, the woman looked first to her left, toward the jumble of packing cases that sheltered Bernhardt. Could she see him as he crouched behind the boxes, both his eyes and his gun tracking her through a narrow space between the cases? Should he stand up, confront her?

Another half-step, each moment a shrieking eternity, and her head began to swing away from him and toward the boy. All the time was gone—the days, the minutes, now the last seconds, gone. All the—

Suddenly her whole body tensed. Her eyes, he knew, were blazing as, yes, the revolver came up, aimed at the small figure crouched behind the truck.

“Theo.”
It was his voice, a sound that filled the silence. His theatrical voice, make-believe loud, make-believe brave.
“Drop it.”

Revolver raised, crouched, she began the turn toward him, committed.

“T
HEO. DROP IT.
”

A stranger’s voice.

Bernhardt, hidden?

Hidden with John? Protecting John?

Price saw Theo’s shoulder drop, saw her crouch, saw her revolver swing, tracking the man’s voice. The revolver was trained on the stack of broken boxes.

Moving with Theo as she turned, Price raised the rifle, steadied it. Involuntarily, his finger tightened on the trigger. The explosion shattered the silence. The rifle kicked, struck his shoulder, hard.

One explosion.

Another explosion, a second shot.

His?

B
ERNHARDT’S REVOLVER KICKED; ORANGE
flame blossomed. The explosion mingled with the shouts, the screams, and the sound of the other explosion. Her blouse was white, her blood was bright red against the white. Holding his revolver in both hands, the approved stance, Bernhardt leaped clear of the packing cases, sprang toward the woman, kicked the revolver from her hand. The pistol struck the front wheel of the truck, fell to the ground. Bernhardt whirled to face the man. Price stood motionless. His eyes were wide, staring at the woman as she sank slowly to her knees. The rifle was pointed down toward the ground at Bernhardt’s feet. A single eddy of smoke curled from the muzzle. With his revolver trained on Price’s chest, Bernhardt whispered, “Drop the gun, Dennis.” As Theo began to slowly shake her head, Price laid the rifle in the dirt and then stepped back. As Theo sighed once and then collapsed, Price lifted his eyes to Bernhardt, saying, “John?”

J
OHN YAWNED, LOOKED AT
his bed. His Aunt Janice had turned the bedspread down, the way his mother had done, so very long ago. But his aunt didn’t want him to go to bed, didn’t want him to go to sleep, not yet. They were waiting for someone.

He looked at his aunt, looked at the TV. It was about a large family that talked too much and laughed too loud. His Aunt Janice had turned the volume down until the voices were only whispers. When there’d been nothing left for him to say to his aunt, nothing left for her to say to him, when only their small, sad smiles were left, she’d turned on the TV, so he wouldn’t fall asleep.

Now he looked at his aunt, and saw her watching him. When their eyes met, she smiled a quick, bright smile, more serious than cheerful. His Aunt Janice was worried. Scared, really. The men downstairs, the cars outside, the flashing lights, the sound of strangers’ footsteps—it was all the same as the night his mother died. And his aunt was scared.

Words ran together in his thoughts. Words like
Aunt Janice
became one word. And
Grandpa Hale,
too—the grandfather he’d never know, his mother’s father.

And
the night his mother died
all ran together, too: one long, sad word, the word that would never leave his thoughts. It was a word that—

A knock on the door: three light knuckle-raps. A stranger’s knock. It was the knock Aunt Janice had been expecting, the knock they’d been waiting for. Quickly, she stepped to the TV, switched it off, then went to the door. She looked back at him, smiled, and nodded.
Don’t worry,
the nod meant.

But she was worried.

Plainly, she was worried.

She opened the door to the tall, half-bald man with the thin voice who spoke quietly. But when he spoke, the strangers in the house listened, and nodded, and obeyed. Everyone but the sheriff, who never nodded.

Aunt Janice and the man were talking quietly. Their eyes had gone cloudy. It was the same way everyone had talked at the funeral, the same way they’d looked around the eyes and the mouth.

Had Al died?

Was that what the tall, thin man had come to tell them? When they’d driven from the barn to the house, they’d found Al lying beside the road. Maria had been kneeling beside Al, crying, rocking from side to side as she pressed a blood-soaked towel to Al’s upper chest. Soon afterward the ambulance had come, its siren screaming. It had only been a station wagon that was painted white, with red lights on top. So they’d had to send another ambulance for the woman they’d left at the barn.

On
the night his mother died
—those words, again—there’d only been one ambulance. And when the ambulance left, that night, there were no sirens, no flashing red lights. Only the headlights, sweeping white arcs in the darkness.

At the door, his Aunt Janice and the tall man were finished talking. They nodded to each other as if they were agreeing to something sad. Yes, it was like the two days in Santa Barbara, those final two days: low voices, slow movements, eyes that had gone dark.

Had
Al died? He’d been alive when they put him in the ambulance. His eyelids had been fluttering, and his fingers had twitched.

While Aunt Janice closed the door, the tall man stepped forward, smiling down at him. The man was so tall that the ceiling was behind his head, not the wall.

“Hi John,” the man said. “My name is Clifford Benson. I’m the district attorney of Benedict County. I’m the one who’s got to decide whether we arrest people—put them in jail.” As he spoke, the tall man sat on the bed, gesturing for John to sit beside him. Between them the tall man placed a small tape recorder.

“Not the sheriff?” he asked.

“Well, the sheriff makes the first decision, I guess you’d say. He makes the on-scene decision, as we call it. He decides whether someone should be arrested. But then I have to decide whether there’s enough evidence to indict someone, make him stand trial, in court. The sheriff does his work first, gets everything secured. Then he calls me.” The tall man was smiling at him. “Do you see?” It was the kind of question a teacher would ask. A good teacher, not one of the bad teachers.

“I—I guesso.”

“Good. Now—” The man pointed to the tape recorder. “Now, that’s a tape recorder, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Now, I’ve talked to Miss Hale—your aunt. And I’ve talked to Mr. Bernhardt, too. And they both agree that they want me to talk to you about the events that transpired—” He broke off, frowned, started again: “About what happened on the night your mother died.” The man looked to Aunt Janice. “Is that correct, Miss Hale?”

“That’s correct.” She spoke slowly; her face was serious. She stood against the far wall, arms folded. She was standing that way because she would say nothing more. Now it was the tall man and the tape recorder—and him. Just him.

As, yes, the man touched the switch on the recorder. The tape began to revolve as the man, Mr. Benson, began to talk: “This is Clifford R. Benson, district attorney of Benedict County, California, at—” He looked at his watch. “At eleven-fifteen
P.M.
on the night of August thirtieth, of this year. I’m speaking from the residence of Dennis Price, of the Brookside Winery, in Benedict County. I’m interrogating John Price, age seven, the son of Dennis Price and the late Constance Hale Price. Witnessing this interrogation is Miss Janice Hale, sister of Constance and aunt of John. At the end of the interrogation, Miss Hale will make a short statement.

“The subject of the interrogation is the events that transpired at this location on the night of June sixteenth, of this year, and the early morning hours of June seventeenth.”

Mr. Benson touched the switch again, stopped the tape. For a moment Mr. Benson didn’t speak. As the long, silent moments passed, they sat motionless, looking at each other. Then, quietly, Mr. Benson said, “I know what you told Mr. Bernhardt and Miss Hale a few hours ago, John, while the three of you were in the barn and you observed your father and Theo Stark approaching. I want you to tell me exactly what you told them. If you do—if you tell me the whole story, then that’ll be the end of it. Everything will be out in the open after that. There won’t be any more lies.” Another long, solemn pause. Then, still quietly: “Do you understand, John?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And will you tell me what happened? Everything that happened?” Could he do it—nod once more? Just once more?

“O
KAY,” FOWLER SAID, JERKING HIS
chin grudgingly toward the phone. “You can use it, but just for a couple of minutes, no more.”

“Is there a phone book?” Bernhardt asked. “I don’t know the number.”

“Ask Information,” Fowler grunted.

He got the number, heard the phone ring in his room at the Starlight Motel.

“Yes?”

For a moment he didn’t respond, but instead let the sound of her voice linger. How often, in the past hours, had he thought of her? How often had he longed to touch her, feel her touch him?

“Paula, it’s Alan.”

“Ah—” It was a soft exhalation: a lover’s wordless communion. “God, it’s midnight.”

“I know. I couldn’t phone until now.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes …”

“Janice? John?”

“They’re fine. Every—” He broke off.
Everyone on our team is fine,
he’d been about to add. At the thought he privately smiled. Did it really come down to a sports metaphor? Was that the American way?

“Listen, I can’t talk. I just wanted to check in. But you should go to sleep, Paula. This could take a long time.”

“C.B. is here. Do you want him?”

The wry, weary private smile returned. He could imagine C.B.’s frustration, left out of the action. At bottom, C.B. was a bone-knocker.

“I don’t need him now. Has he got a room?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell him to go to sleep.”

“He wants to talk to you.”

Bernhardt looked at Fowler, who was glowering. “I can’t talk to him now.” He turned his back on the sheriff, spoke softly: “Love you.”

“Me too you.” A pause. Then, intimately: “Be sure and wake me, when you come in.”

“Of that,” he said, “you may be absolutely certain. ’Bye.” Gently, he broke the connection.

As he turned away from the phone, still with his back to Fowler, he saw Benson descending the central staircase that led down to the Price living room. For the last two hours, upstairs, Benson had been alternately interrogating both Dennis Price and John. Price had been held in the master bedroom, the original scene of the crime. John was in his own bedroom, with Janice.

Now, plainly weary, Benson nodded to Bernhardt, then pointed to the front door. Bernhardt nodded in return, following Benson out to the broad verandah. The night was soft and balmy; the moon was big and full, the stars were bright overhead. And, yes, there was the chirping of countless crickets.

“Come over here,” Benson said, gesturing to two redwood chairs placed in the deep shadows of the front porch. Wearily, Benson sank into one of the chairs while Bernhardt took the other. Benson glanced at the open front door. Then he leaned forward, cautiously lowering his voice: “I’ve just come from talking to John—in Miss Hale’s presence.”

Bernhardt nodded. What came next, yet another sports metaphor, could be the ball game. If baseball was a game of inches, the game of life or death was a game of seconds—this second, and the next.

“It’s all settled,” Benson said. In his voice, Bernhardt could plainly hear both weariness and satisfaction. The home team, then, had won.

Won.

Through the ache of a bone-numbing weariness Bernhardt felt a kind of lost, wan exultation.

Won.

“John told it to me the way he told it to you,” Benson was saying. “Or so Miss Hale states. So I put it to Mr. Price that his account of the events that transpired on the night of June sixteenth was false. Whereupon, surprise, he admitted that he’d been lying. Then he proceeded to blame his girlfriend for everything. So, adding everything together, I’m satisfied that I know how Constance Price died. She walked in on Price and Theo Stark in the master bedroom. A fight started. Theo Stark was probably coked up, or so Price alleges. She picked up the fireplace tongs, which was the murder weapon. Price was involved in the fight, I don’t know to what extent. After he realized that his wife was dead, he took Theo down the stairs to put her in her car, get her out of there. Then he’d call the sheriff, report a prowler. But John was sleeping on the couch in the living room. The question was, how much did John see? No one knew, until today—until John told you the whole story in the barn, and then repeated it for me, just now.”

“What’s Price say?”

“He says that Theo did it. As I said.”

“And what’s she say?”

Benson shook his head. He let a beat pass as he looked at Bernhardt. Then, quietly: “She can’t talk.”

“Wh—” Suddenly his throat closed. Thank God, his face was in shadow. “What’s that mean?”