Cradle to Grave (31 page)

Although Rees spent a good hour searching the desk, he found nothing that could incriminate anyone, certainly nothing that pointed to a murderer. The wet paper on the desk, as far as he could determine, pertained only to rentals. He went through the files in the drawer. Some were out of alphabetical order, at odds with the neat arrangement. Other papers were stuffed carelessly in anywhere, and were ripped and crumpled. Everything about Silas argued that he had been a thoroughly detailed man, not one to treat his business documents so carelessly. It took no great leap to assume someone else before Rees had searched the drawer.

Rees paused, irresolute, in the middle of the floor. Of course, if Silas had had something that might incriminate Maggie's killer—and possibly his own, although he would not have foreseen that—surely he would have hidden it where it would be hard to find. After a few moments of thought, Rees turned and went up the stairs to the second floor. Several rooms opened off the landing, but all were almost empty. Only one contained any furniture, a bed and an old cornhusk-filled mattress. Mice had been at it; they'd chewed through the ticking and the old brown leaves had fallen to the floor. Rees walked through every room, even kneeling beside a bed and looking underneath it. He saw nothing at all out of the ordinary.

“Damn,” he said. He was missing something; he had to be.

The sun was beginning to drop toward the horizon when he left; the western light spilled bloodred upon the remaining film of snow and long shadows stretched east from the house. He paused a moment on the front step, trying to imagine other hiding places. Barn? Henhouse? Of course it would help if he knew what he was searching for.

Crack! A sudden rifle shot echoed over the hilltop. With the instincts of a former soldier, Rees flung himself to the ground. The ball struck the door behind him. He raised his head and looked around. His first glance revealed nothing. He swept his gaze across the yard again and saw movement in the copse of trees on the other side. Someone was shooting at him. He wouldn't be safe here, not against someone with a rifle. Counting the seconds necessary for reloading, he crawled rapidly around to the side of the house and started down the slope. He flung himself behind the henhouse just as another shot split the air, and the ball whined past him.

When Rees peered around the coop's side, he saw a figure moving through evergreens across the yard. Coming toward him. Throwing himself down upon the snow, Rees rolled farther down the slope, toward the pigsty. Involuntarily he hunched his shoulders, expecting a bullet in his back at any second. With the rain and warming temperatures, most of the snow had melted. The spiky tufts of dead vegetation poked into him as he rolled across them. The wet snow soaked his coat and stockings, and he felt a steady trickle down the back of his neck.

He slid to safety behind the pigsty just as another gunshot cracked across the hill. The ball struck the ground nearby. He had to keep moving; he knew that. He hadn't so much as a pocketknife to defend himself. The shooter need only find him.

Rees looked at the empty snowy expanse behind him. No cover at all, and in the long golden rays of sunshine, he would be clearly visible. But if he could reach the crest of the hill behind him and drop behind it, he would gain a measure of safety. Crouching low, he started to run, slipping over the snow and falling more than once. Another shot, but the bullet hit the snow behind him. He was moving out of range. He took a moment to catch his breath, peering back at the house to see if the shooter was in pursuit. No movement. Rees's heart hammered in his chest and he felt sick with fear. But he made the crest and slid down the side behind it. Stumbling to his feet, he began to run, as fast as the surface beneath his feet would allow. Since the ground sloped down, with only a few rises up, he soon built up a tremendous speed. When he fell, he shot down the hill like a toboggan, fetching up against the scarecrow and flattening it to the ground. He was almost home. Groaning, he sat up. Soaking wet and muddy, and his right leg aching, Rees struggled to his feet and staggered the last few steps to the bottom of the hill. The cabin came into view but it was still a distance away. Rees limped toward it, hurrying as much as his injured leg would allow. Lydia came to the door. When she saw him she uttered a cry of dismay and hurried toward him. “What happened to you?”

“Someone shot at me,” Rees said. Lydia clapped her hands over her mouth, the blood draining from her cheeks. “I'm all right,” Rees hastened to say. “I fell. That's all.” He inhaled deeply and tried to slow his breathing. He put his arms around her and held on tight.

“Oh Will.” Involuntary tears of fright gushed from her eyes.

“Clearly,” Rees said, “I spooked the murderer.”

Lydia nodded and used her apron to wipe her cheeks. “Don't tell the children,” she said. “We'll discuss this later.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

They went inside, and Rees hurried to stand in front of the fire. Lydia hung Rees's coat to one side; the mud could not be brushed away until it dried. Water ran out of the garment with a steady pattering sound, and soon a pool lay beneath it. Rees's boots, so coated with mud their weight had doubled, were also dispatched to the fireplace. He retired to the bedroom to change to dry breeches and stockings. His shirt was still mostly dry, although the narrow collar was damp. When he limped into the main room, Lydia hurried over with a blanket.

“What happened?” Jerusha asked, her lips trembling.

“Nothing,” he said, forcing a smile. “I slipped and fell.”

Lydia bit her lip. “Coffee?” Rees hoped Jerusha did not notice the shakiness in Lydia's voice. She poured out a cup of the strong bitter brew and brought it to the table. For a moment Rees just sat there. His large freckled farmer's hands were white with cold and purple from scrapes and bruises picked up on his frenzied trip home. He couldn't stop shivering. Finally, as he began pouring in milk and sugar, she leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Will?”

“I wanted to search Silas's house again.” He met Lydia's worried gaze. “I wondered if Silas had gotten ahold of something that identified Maggie's killer. That would make a good reason for murdering him. But, whatever Silas might have had, the killer hasn't found it. That's clear. He returned for a second search, and then he began shooting to make sure I didn't escape with it.”

“But now he might believe you found it,” Lydia said. “Oh Will.” She clasped her hands so tightly together the knuckles went white.

“Yes,” Rees said, putting his hand over hers. “So, that means I must find it, and soon. I just wish I knew what it might be.”

Furious knocking on the door interrupted him. Jerusha quickly ran over and flung it open. “Constable Cooper,” she said. He ruffled her hair and looked over at Rees, his expression both distrustful and anxious.

“What happened?” Rees asked.

“Silas Tucker's house is on fire,” Cooper said.

“He's not going with you!” Lydia cried fiercely, jumping to her feet.

But Rees was already rising. He drank the last of his coffee. “How are we getting there? I'm not walking. I injured my leg.”

“I rode over,” Cooper said. “Wagons and buggies aren't any good in this weather. Is the horse”—he tipped his head in the direction of the lean-to—“broken to the saddle?”

“I don't know,” Rees said. “Guess we'll find out.” He collected his shoes. They were not as sturdy as his boots, but they were dry and free of mud. Then he stopped and looked at his greatcoat in dismay. Most of the excess water had run out of the wool but it was still damp and muddy.

Cooper turned to Rees with a suspicious stare. “What did you do?”

Rees, who hadn't wanted to confess his earlier visit to Silas's farm, sighed. “I went to the house to search it,” he said.

“And you thought you'd set it on fire before you left?” Cooper's voice rose.

“Of course not,” Rees snapped. “When I left someone shot at me. He shot at me,” he repeated, almost as though he couldn't believe it. “I wondered if Silas had something that identified the killer. If so, it would appear the killer hasn't found it.”

“Did
you
find it?” Cooper asked.

“No,” Rees said. His suspicions of Cooper roared back. “I don't even know what it would be. But why else would someone try to kill me as I left Tucker's house? And why set fire to it unless he's trying to destroy the evidence?” He paused and watched the constable fit the pieces together.

“Of course. Silas saw a way to make a few shillings. Stupid greedy fool,” Cooper muttered with a nod. “Come on.”

Rees stood up. The injury to his right leg, which seemed to center upon the knee, had stiffened while he sat. Waves of pain radiated to ankle and thigh. He paused, waiting for the ache to subside, looking thoughtfully at Lydia's cloak and Jerusha's shawl hanging on the pegs. He elected to wear his jacket outside.

As soon as he left the cabin he smelled the fire: thick and choking and much stronger than the smell of wood smoke from the cottage chimney. Cooper nodded at the sky and Rees turned. Smoke had darkened the reddening sky. “Mr. Baker rode into town to tell me,” the constable said. After a beat, he added, “No matter what you think of me, I take my position seriously. I want to find this killer, or killers.”

Rees nodded but said nothing. He couldn't promise a trust he didn't feel.

“And you seem to have some facility for unraveling these knots,” Cooper went on.

Ah, flattery. Rees didn't take it seriously. “Let me fetch the horse,” he said and limped away.

Since Rees owned no saddle here, he threw a blanket over Ares's back and awkwardly, with the aid of the fence, pulled himself up. As a boy he'd frequently ridden in such a manner, but he now found the climb up much more difficult. Gripping the horse's broad sides proved challenging with a sore and weakened leg. Especially when Ares, although comfortable with the bridle, sidled skittishly when he felt the weight upon his back. Rees suspected the horse had been broken to riding once, but it had been a long time ago. He spent the first third of the ride struggling to control Ares until, finally, the horse settled.

By the time they rode up Silas's lane the house was a flaming ruin, a bright ball against the darkening sky. Smoke carried the stink of burning into the air and, as they neared the blaze, the snap of embers and crash of falling beams grew louder. The Bakers were already there, standing in the yard and staring at the fire in dismay. They carried buckets but Mr. Baker, gesturing with the wooden pail, said, “It was already too far gone when we arrived.” Cooper jumped down and ran over. Rees remained mounted for a moment longer. His body remembered the crack of gunfire and trembling spread out from the pit of his stomach to his hands and legs.

“Coming?” Cooper shouted at him.

Rees would never reveal his fear; he jumped down without thought and thudded to the ground with a shudder of pain. His leg buckled, but he grabbed the stirrup and did not fall.

Cooper approached the fire as close as he dared. It was impossible to see now where the fire had begun.

After one glance at the ruin, Rees left the cluster of men and walked in the opposite direction, to the copse of trees in front of the house. It was only a narrow band of evergreens with a scattering of oak and elm; Rees could see another open field just beyond the trees. He eyed the furrowed ground with its slick covering of snow and selected a thick branch to use for support. He picked his way through the trunks to the other side, following a path already inscribed by another's footsteps. Something, maybe the rifle barrel, had been used for support and the track of the left foot pressed more deeply into the snow than the right.

Rees broke through the trees onto the field. The lines of Silas Tucker's plowing remained faintly visible through the snow. Under his feet, the thin stripes from buggy wheels, still crisp and new, dug deep through the snow to the mud below. That meant a man of some consequence; a poor man might own a horse, but not a buggy. Horse apples, one pile so fresh it probably dated from just a few hours ago, dotted the strip by the trees. Someone had driven up here, hidden his buggy behind the trees, and watched Rees as he went into the dwelling. Then this person had moved into the trees and fired upon Rees when he came out of the house.

But there was no way of telling who that man might be. Or if he were the same man who'd shot and killed Silas, although Rees would lay money on that.

“What did you find?” Cooper asked, suddenly appearing through the trees. The quick glance he shot at Rees was wary. Rees gestured at the tracks around him.

“Someone saw me go inside,” he said. Cooper looked at the ravaged snow and nodded.

“Same one who killed both Silas Tucker and Maggie?”

“Probably,” Rees said. “But Maggie wasn't shot. We need to find the place where she was attacked.

“We've looked everywhere,” Cooper said in frustration. “Even in the meetinghouse.”

They started the walk back to the burning house. Cooper plodded along, swearing under his breath. But Rees, although disappointed by the lack of a definitive identification, was not as downcast as Cooper.

He still thought Maggie was the key, just as she'd always been.

By the time Cooper and Rees arrived back at the yard the Bakers had left, and indeed it was now almost too dark to see. The blaze was beginning to diminish, the embers glowing red like the eyes of some wicked being snared in the blackened stubs of wooden beams. Only the foundation, the stones stained with soot, remained whole. “I wonder what Silas might have found,” Cooper muttered.

“Did he have any close friends? Someone that might have hidden a package for him?” Rees asked.

“You saw him at the meeting with the selectmen,” Cooper said with a shake of his head. “Maggie was the closest thing to family he had, and you saw how he treated her and the children.”