Defiant Heart (25 page)

“There.” He pointed to the hedge lining the base of the veranda. A bicycle lay half propped against the shrubbery and half lying on the small patch of grass in front of it. He put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder and looked into the boy’s eyes. The night air had apparently helped, as they looked a little more focused. “Get rid of this. I’ll stay here and cover for you.”

Jeff looked from Vernon to the bike and back. He seemed to get it. Without replying, he stepped over, picked up the bike and began carrying it toward the corner of the building. He had barely rounded the corner when headlights appeared in the distance.

A vehicle raced up the drive and around the parking circle. As it entered the light cast by the windows of the Lodge, Vernon could see the sheriff’s markings on the hood and sides and the single red light mounted on the roof. Two men jumped out of the car. One was in uniform. The other was wearing a pair of slacks and a pullover sweater. Vernon stepped forward.

“Where is George Crandall?” the man in the sweater asked without preamble.

Vernon pointed back toward the building. “Second floor, down the hall to the left.”

The man in the sweater looked to the man in the uniform and tipped his head in the direction of the front door. Without a word, the man in uniform strode quickly up the steps and into the building.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“Vernon King, sir.”

“What happened?”

Vernon gave the version of the story he’d just outlined for Jeff. “We heard her screaming ‘No, I don’t want to do that.’ When we entered the room, he was on top of her and she was fighting to get him off. He saw us and went crazy.” He added a couple of details for flavor and filled in the part following the moment when Jeff was knocked out.

When Vernon finished, the man said, “All right, follow me.” He led Vernon up the stairs and back into the sitting room.

Jon was still in the chair where Mr. Crandall had ordered him to sit. There was now a pair of handcuffs on him, Vernon saw with some satisfaction. Mr. Crandall stood to one side, and the man in uniform to the other. Vernon could see the uniformed man had a badge that read “Deputy Sheriff.”

The man in the sweater looked expectantly at the deputy, who said, “The victim’s in the other room with the doctor. It’s Mary Dahlgren, Jim Dahlgren’s girl.”

The man in the sweater made a pained expression and turned to Mr. Crandall. “You’re Crandall.” It was more a statement than a question.

The older man nodded.

“Tell me what happened.” He had taken a small notepad and pencil out of his pocket.

“I was in my house,” Mr. Crandall said. “I live in the caretaker’s cottage around by the back,” and he pointed in that direction. “I heard a window break, so I grabbed my gun.” This time, he pointed to the weapon, which was sitting on a table across the room. “I ran up the stairs, and, when I came into this room, I saw a boy lying on the floor by the bedroom door. He wasn’t moving.”

“Where is this boy?”

“I’m here,” Jeff said. Vernon turned and saw Jeff standing in the doorway.

“Who are you?” asked the man in the sweater.

“Jeff Fletcher.”

The man squinted. “Mort Fletcher’s boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vernon was glad to see that this information seemed to carry some weight.

“All right,” the man in the sweater said, returning his attention to Mr. Crandall. “Continue.”

The older man said, “I went to the bedroom door. I saw him,” and he pointed to Vernon, “over against the wall between the beds. And I saw him,” pointing to Jon. “He was near the door, and he was moving toward the girl.”

“I was going to help her,” Jon exclaimed. “She was already on the floor, after he,” and he raised both hands and pointed toward Vernon, “threw her against the dresser. I had just fought him off, and I was going to help her.”

The man in the sweater turned to Mr. Crandall. “Could he have been going to help?”

Mr. Crandall thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “Possibly. I can’t rule it out.”

The man in the sweater made some notes in his pad. Then he turned to Vernon and Jeff. “What were the two of you doing here?”

“I let them in,” Mr. Crandall volunteered. “They were here to do some cleaning. Their fathers are member of the Lodge, and they offered to pitch in.”

“Is that normal?”

The man shrugged. “No, not really. But I was happy to have the help. And,” he added, “ever since my wife died…”

“Did they do the cleaning?” the man in the sweater interrupted.

“I don’t know,” said the caretaker. “I haven’t had a chance to look.”

“Do that for me please.”

Mr. Crandall seemed surprised, but, after a short hesitation, he nodded and left the room. Vernon silently congratulated himself. Jeff had wanted to skip the cleaning, but Vernon had insisted that they not only do it, but that they do a diligent job of it.

The man in the sweater turned his attention to Jeff. “Let me hear your version of it,” he commanded.

Jeff repeated the story Vernon had told him in the hallway downstairs, almost word for word.

Then the man pointed to Jon. “Now, let me hear your story.”

Jon recounted how he’d been told there was to be a party at the Lodge that Mary was supposed to be attending and how he’d seen Gwenda and Billy, who were also supposed to be at the party. He explained his concern for Mary’s safety and told of his bike ride to the Lodge. He described bursting in on Jeff, knocking him out and entering the bedroom.

“He was the one on top of Mary,” Jon said, and his eyes burned with fury as he looked at Vernon. Vernon forced himself to remain calm. Jon told how Vernon had thrown Mary against the dresser, his voice choking as he said it, and how they’d fought briefly before Mr. Crandall arrived.

The caretaker returned. The man in the sweater made a few more notes, then looked up at him inquiringly.

“Yep,” said Mr. Crandall. “They cleaned the place. Did a pretty good job, too.”

The man in the sweater consulted his notes. Then he turned to Jon. “Where did you leave your bike?”

“I jumped off as soon as I got here. It’s right out front.”

The man glanced at the deputy. “Go down and look for the bike.” The deputy nodded and left. Then he turned to Mr. Crandall. “Do you know this boy?” he asked, indicating Jon.

Mr. Crandall shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

The man in the sweater closed his notepad and tapped it absently with the tip of the pencil, obviously thinking. The deputy returned, and he looked at him.

“There’s no bike down there,” the deputy said.

Vernon could see Jon start. Jon raised his hands, and said, “They must have hidden it.”

“That’s enough,” said the man in the sweater, raising a hand. Jon sat back, but he glowered at Vernon and Jeff.

The man in the sweater continued tapping his pad with the pencil for a few more seconds. Then he turned to the deputy and said, as much to himself as the other man, “We’ve got two boys who have a legitimate reason to be here. They’ve got consistent stories, and their stories are corroborated by the only other eye witness. On the other hand, we’ve got this boy who has no good reason to be here and who has a story that, at least so far, doesn’t measure up. And, two of the others say they saw him assaulting the victim.”

He slipped the notepad and pencil back into his pocket and turned to face Jon. “Son, I’m placing you under arrest.”

Just then, the bedroom door opened, and the doctor stepped out. He nodded grimly to the man in the sweater. “Hello, Bill.”

The man in the sweater gave a nod of acknowledgement. “How is she?”

The doctor shook his head. “I’ve stabilized her and called for the ambulance. But she won’t make it through the night.”

A loud sob erupted from Jon. Vernon let out the breath he’d been holding.

11

Taking advantage of the school recess, Billy Hamilton slept late on Tuesday morning. When he got up, he found that both of his parents had already left the house.

He was in the kitchen eating breakfast. There was a knock at the front door. When he opened it, he was surprised to find Vernon King standing on the stoop.

“Is anyone else here?” asked Vernon, without greeting.

Billy shook his head.

“Good,” said Vernon, and he walked in, brushing past Billy. “We have a big problem. Things went bad at the Lodge last night.”

“What things? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know. You helped me get Mary out to the Lodge last night.”

Vernon’s whole tone and the subject matter seemed off base to Billy. “Hold on,” Billy said. “You told me the party was cancelled. There wasn’t anything going on at the Lodge last night.”

Vernon acknowledged the statement and gave a slight motion of his hand. “Well, maybe. But Mary was still there.”

Confused, Billy asked. “You didn’t tell her?”

And then, after a moment, it clicked. “There never was a party, was there? You used me and Gwenda to get Mary out to the Lodge. Alone. Why?”

The words Vernon had used earlier suddenly sunk in. Things went bad, he’d said. “What happened?” Billy demanded. “What did you do?”

Vernon shrugged. Casually, he said, “As far as the sheriff is concerned, I didn’t do anything.”

“The sheriff?”

“Sit down, Billy. You look a little pale.”

Vernon took a seat in the big leather chair that Billy’s father used. He pointed to the sofa. Billy realized suddenly that he
did
need to sit. He took a couple shaky steps and lowered himself onto the sofa.

Vernon leaned forward. “Listen, why it happened, and even how it happened, is not really that important. What’s important now is that the sheriff thinks Meyer did it. And he’s going to keep thinking Meyer did it unless you and Gwenda are stupid enough to tell him about the party. You know. The one that never was.”

Slowly, Billy asked, “What does the sheriff think Meyer did?”

Vernon spread his palms. “He thinks Meyer tried to rape Mary.”

“What?”

Vernon held his hands out, palms down, and shook them. “Take it easy, Billy.”

“You tried to rape Mary?”

Vernon held up a finger. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Unless you want to go to jail.”

Billy thought about that for a moment. “Don’t you have a serious problem? Don’t you think Mary is going to have something to say about this?”

Vernon shook his head. “Mary’s not going to be telling anybody anything. Ever.”

“Why not?” And then, as the words came out, it felt as though someone had shoved a needle in his heart and pumped it full of ice water. “Oh my God. Are you telling me Mary is… dead?”

“Not as of ten o’clock last night. By now, though…” Vernon shrugged.

“Jesus,” Billy said, feeling lightheaded. “How can you be so casual about it?”

“Because,” Vernon said roughly, “there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Billy stood up. He was shaking. “No. I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re going to have to leave now.”

Angrily, Vernon said, “Sit down, Billy,” and, for the first time, Billy felt fear.

He sat.

“Now, this is the way it’s going to be. Neither you nor Gwenda are going to tell the sheriff about any party that was supposed to be happening last night. They’re going to ask you, and you’re going to say you have no idea what they’re talking about. Because,” he added, his eyes boring into Billy’s, “if I go down, you go down with me. I’ll have nothing to lose at that point. I’ll tell everyone you were in on it from the beginning. You were my accomplice. They’ll believe me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes I would,” Vernon said. And, with a sickening realization, Billy believed him.

#

The woman behind the desk in the small reception area set down the telephone receiver and said to Tom Anderson, “Mr. McAllister will see you now.”

Anderson unfolded his lanky frame from the large overstuffed chair, picked up his briefcase and walked to the door leading to the private office beyond. As he opened the door and stepped in, Murray McAllister, the Winimac County Prosecuting Attorney was already coming around his desk, his hand out to shake.

Anderson had come to McAllister’s office today to discuss the Jon Meyer case. Marvella Wilson had sought out Anderson the day after Jon was arrested, and he’d readily accepted the engagement.

Jon had been locked up in the county jail in Ridley for thirty-two hours without any visitors when Anderson had finally seen him earlier that morning. Anderson was an old hand at dealing with the criminally accused. He understood and accepted the fact that most of his clients were, when all was said and done, guilty of one thing or another. He’d gotten his share of them off, or, at least, gotten their charges reduced. But most deserved to be where they were when he first saw them in the county lockup.

Jon was another matter altogether. In Anderson’s mind, there was no possibility Jon had done anything remotely close to the crime with which he’d been charged. The sight of the boy sitting in the small, bare cell was completely incongruous.

Jon’s thoughts were entirely on Mary Dahlgren. Desperate for information about her condition, he fought back tears when Anderson told him she was still alive, though in a coma and in critical condition. Anderson struggled to keep his own emotions in check.

They went over the events of Monday evening in excruciating detail. Nothing in Jon’s answers gave Anderson a scintilla of doubt regarding Jon’s innocence. Anderson did his best to reassure Jon that he’d do everything in his power to get Jon released, and he explained that he would be meeting shortly with the prosecuting attorney.

In his more than thirty years of practice, Anderson had never felt the kind of pressure to see a client exonerated that he was feeling now.

McAllister, who had taken a seat at his desk, folded his hands in front of him and gave Anderson, who now sat across from him, a level look. “I hate this case, Tom.”

Anderson nodded and waited for him to continue.

“I’m going to be honest with you, though you know I’ll deny it if we go to trial. I have serious doubts about the charges against this kid.” He opened the file sitting in front of him on the desk. “I’ve got statements here from several of his teachers indicating he’s a model student and a solid citizen, though I do have one guy, here,” and he shuffled through some pages before selecting one, “his gym teacher, who claims the kid is unstable and violent.” He tossed the sheet on top of the stack. “That doesn’t square with the rest of the picture I’m seeing, so I take it with a grain of salt.