Gibbon's Decline and Fall (34 page)

Bill chose that moment to arrive, breathless, white in the face, and the trooper switched his attention away from Bettiann.

No, said Bill, Charley wasn't depressed. No, he didn't drink and drive, not ordinarily.

When the trooper left them, Bill turned on her, muttering, “Why didn't you call me!”

“Bill, I did! Your secretary didn't know where you were. I left a message with her.”

“I had my cellular.”

“She tried your phone, Bill. So did I. You didn't answer.”

He flushed, started to say something, then stopped. He'd been up to something. He had that certain expression around his eyes. So he'd been with some woman. Probably. Possibly. The expression was a little strange. More puzzled than guilty. If not a woman, then who?

“Why did he ask those questions?” Bill demanded of the air. “He was hurt in an accident, wasn't he?”

“He drove into a bridge abutment,” Bettiann told him. “I overheard them talking out at the nurses' desk. They have a witness who saw him do it.”

“So he lost control of the car.…”

“You're not listening, Bill. He didn't lose control of the car. He
drove
into a bridge abutment.”

“Intentionally?”

“That's why they're asking those questions. They think he tried to commit suicide.”

“Charley?” His voice was outraged, but only momentarily. He sat down, burying his face in his hands. “God. Charley.”

She sat beside him, putting her arms around him. There weren't many times when one could comfort William Carpenter. He was a man who despised gifts; who cared only for what he bought and owned. Sympathy wasn't something he could buy, so he didn't often get it, or accept it. As now, shaking her off, wiping his face, sitting up. “What are they doing for him?”

“Trying to stop the internal bleeding. Trying to keep his heart going. There's a lot of alcohol in his system. He's got
broken bones. Ribs. Arm. Leg. Maybe skull, they're not sure yet, they can't x-ray until they can stabilize him.”

“How long have you been here?”

She peered at the jeweled watch on her wrist, blinked and peered again. Her contacts were hurting. She hadn't brought her glasses. She never wore them except when she was alone. “I got the call around four. I really did try to get you, William.…”

“I was at the doctor's.”

“What?”

He got that peculiar look again, then said, “Indigestion. Nothing. It's almost eight. You go on home.”

“I'll stay with you.”

“You don't need to. You're tired. You look tired. Go on home. Get some rest.”

Run on back to the pasture, Bettiann. Master will round you up later, give you some grain, maybe a pat on the head. She blinked back tears and took a deep breath.

“I would like to stay with you, Bill. I'd prefer it.”

“Go home,” he said, not looking at her.

She went. When she got to the car, she blinked out the contacts and flooded her eyes with drops, feeling the scratchiness ease, the drops slide down her cheeks like tears. She had a pair of glasses in the glove compartment for emergencies. If Carolyn were here, she'd ask why Betts was wearing contacts at all. Because Bill preferred it. Why did she sing soprano in the Episcopal choir? Because Bill's associates went there. Why was she head of the country-club charity committee? Why was she doing and being what she was doing and being? Because this is what Bill had bought and paid for.

Why was she being not herself? Sophy would ask that. Who are you, Bettiann? Lately she'd been obsessed by that question. She even dreamed about it. In the dream she was walking down a long, long hallway, and on either side of her there were mirrors. Every time she passed a mirror, she saw a different person. All of them were female, all of them might be she, though she didn't recognize herself. Some were pretty and some were plain, and in the dream she kept asking, “Who are you, Bettiann?”

If she still didn't know who she was, did it make any difference? After all these years, why was she dreaming about it? Why was she asking the question?

Because you're tired, she told herself. Because you
haven't eaten anything today, and you know better. Because Bill was being funny about this Charley business. As though, maybe, he knew why Charley had done it. As though he knew something he wasn't telling her. Something she wasn't important enough to be informed about.

Friday night, not long after falling asleep, Carolyn woke into an utter silence, suddenly alerted by a touch on her shoulder, a delicate tapping, a whisper in her ear. It was only after she'd swung her legs out of bed and sat there for a moment, staring into darkness, that she heard the low rumble from the hall. Hector. His growl muffled but continuous.

Fancy and Fandango were standing, muzzles pointing down the hall toward the kitchen, their teeth showing. If all three dogs were away from the bed, who had wakened her?

Carolyn put the question aside, slipped into her robe, and got the gun Hal had given her, taught her to use, and insisted she keep at hand. She thought briefly of waking him, then decided not. He still wasn't that steady on his legs. Only when that notion was discarded did she tell the dogs, “Go.”

They went, silently, old Hector moving like a young dog, with no trace of his usual arthritic gait. Marvelous what a little adrenaline could do.

They were poised outside the kitchen door. Carolyn reached across them to press the latch, and three dog bodies thrust it open with a cacophony of barking, growling, snarling. Their quarry was brought to the floor before Carolyn got the lights on, one dog hanging on to each arm and Hector standing over him, neck hair raised, teeth bared, a hideous growl rumbling in his chest.

He was young and spotty and greasy-haired.

“Gettum off me!” he screamed at her. “Gettum off me!”

“Hold still,” she told him. “If you're still, they won't bite you. If you yell or try to get up, Hector will take your throat out.”

Hal had insisted that Hector be professionally trained. Neither Fancy nor Fandango had been, but since they seemed to be following Hector's lead, she left them to it.

Hal was at the door, very pale, leaning on his cane. “What in hell …”

“Prowler,” she said, feeling her muscles twitch, her jaw rigid.

Hal reached for the phone. She sat on the kitchen stool
while he called the sheriff, gun at the ready until they arrived, her eyes never leaving the lanky delinquent on the floor as she murmured encouragement to the dogs. What was this creature doing out here in the country? How did he get here?

“On their way,” murmured Hal. “Give me that gun, Carolyn, you're holding it all wrong.”

“Sorry.” She passed him the weapon and offered him the stool, but he preferred one of the chairs at the table.

“Hector,” said Hal. “Come.”

Reluctantly, Hector came, still muttering in his throat. Fancy and Fandango followed his lead, sitting at Hal's feet, ears up, noses pointed at their prey.

To Carolyn, the wait seemed endless, though it was actually only about ten minutes. The dogs heard the car before she did. She went to the kitchen door and opened it, giving herself a view of the driveway. When the car drew up in a shower of gravel, she stood where they could see her. She didn't intend to offer some reason to be shot, either accidentally or accidentally on purpose. Now, why had she thought that? Talk about paranoid!

“In here,” she called, standing out of the way.

The two men eased by her, and she closed the door behind them.

“Fredo,” said Hal, greeting one of the men by name: Fredo Gonzales, a longtime local resident, with family sprinkled over three counties. “Hal Shepherd,” he said, offering his hand to the other man, who took it somewhat reluctantly. “My wife, Carolyn,” said Hal.

The other deputy didn't look at her. He didn't look at the prowler, either, though the prowler was looking at him with more than passing interest. Did the two know one another? Carolyn looked pointedly at the deputy's name tag: Al Whitfield.

“You recognize him?” Fredo asked Hal.

“Never seen him before, to my knowledge,” Hal replied. “Have you, Carolyn?”

She shook her head, cleared her throat. “No, I haven't.”

Fredo Gonzales went through the boy's pockets and came up with a wallet and a crumpled bit of paper. “He's got a map all drawed out.”

Carolyn took it from him, spread it on the table where Hal could see it. It was a map to their place, labeled in handwriting. With a sudden frisson Carolyn recognized the handwriting.
She'd seen it before. Those cramped little letters. Where?

“Before you take that,” she said, “I'd like to make a copy of it.”

“That's evidence, ma'am, we can't—” started Whitfield.

“You got a copier?” Gonzales interjected, ignoring him.

“Just down the hall.”

Leaving Hal to supervise in the kitchen, she led the way to Hal's study. The room was slightly dusty, and it smelled unused. Since the accident he'd used the desk in the big bedroom. The copier clicked on readily, however, and Carolyn set it for two copies, picking up the first one and presenting it to the deputy.

“Write your name on the copy for me,” she asked him.

“I'm taking the original,” he said, puzzled.

“I know. I just want to identify the copy, in case anybody asks. Write your name and date it for me.”

He gave her a blank stare but did so, after which she returned the original to him, ignoring the additional copy in the bin. With him looking on she put the signed and dated copy into an envelope and stuck it between two books on a shelf. “In case the evidence clerk loses that one,” she said.

This time he understood. He grinned and said, “It's been knowed to happen. You still a lawyer?”

“Sometimes. Mostly retired.”

“Wish I was! Retired, that is.” He tucked the map into his pocket.

“Was there a car or motorbike or anything out on the road?” Carolyn asked.

“We didn't see any. One car out in front here.”

“That's mine. Hal's is in the garage. How did this kid get out here?”

Fredo shrugged. “Hitchhiking, maybe.” He led the way back to the kitchen.

“This here's Don Bent,” the other deputy said when they returned to the kitchen. “That's what his driver's license says. Been here awhile—it's a New Mexico license. Lives in Mesilla.” He looked past Carolyn, speaking as though by rote. “You figure he got away with anything?”

“I imagine the dogs caught him before he had a chance,” said Hal.

“I just come lookin' for work,” said the greasy-haired youth. “That's all.”

“At eleven o'clock at night? In the dark? And you broke the lock on the door?” Fredo Gonzales was incredulous.

“Wasn't me broke it. Was already broke.”

Carolyn shook her head. “No. It wasn't broken at ten o'clock when I locked it before I went to bed.”

“Dogs always sleep in here?” asked Whitfield, all too casually.

Hal's head came up, and he stared at the deputy.

“These dogs do,” Carolyn said, feigning indifference. “Other dogs sleep other places. Then there's the hired men. And parts of this building are covered by alarms.”

She turned to see Hal's eyebrows raised, his lips twisting slightly. Much of what she had just said was invention. Invention now, she conceded, but not for long.

They hauled the young man out and away. The sheriff's car threw gravel against the patio wall as it departed, rocketing off down the drive with more speed than sense.

“You didn't like the guy with Fredo?” Hal asked softly. “Didn't trust him?”

“Did you?”

“Not really. He was a little too interested in our arrangements, wasn't he? Did you get the impression he knew the prisoner?”

“He couldn't have been less curious about him. That might mean something, in my humble opinion.”

“So? What was he doing here? Is this what Helen warned you about?”

She pondered the question. “I think not. Josh—the guard out at the prison—says Jagger has a dirty-work guy, an ex-Green Beret, ex-one thing and another. Guy named Martin. Somebody like that'd be too slick to get caught like this.”

She braced the kitchen door with a high-backed chair; then she and Hal made the rounds of the house, checking the other locks and leaving all inside doors open for the convenience of the nervous dogs, who were exploring every corner and closet. They ended up in the study, where she took the unsigned copy from the bin, scribbled the date and Fredo's name on it, then switched it for the one he had signed. The signed one came out of its envelope and went into her wallet. The one she had just faked went back between the books.

“Bait?” asked Hal, eyebrows raised.

“Well, if Fredo mentions I've got a signed copy of the map, somebody might come looking for it.”

“You recognize the hand?”

“I think I do, yes. I'd guess Swinter.”

“Now, how in hell would you recognize his writing?”

“It was a lawyers' meeting, Hal, years ago. Swinter had a new toy, one of those conference screens you can write on, then it duplicates whatever's on the screen in letter-size copies. He was passing his scribbles out to all and sundry.…”

“You're sure?”

“Not entirely, no. Not until I pull the old file. It's down at Jerry's office.” Jerry was her former partner.

“What do you think the greasy kid was up to?”

“God knows. Murder? Theft? Exploration? I don't think he sort of dropped in accidentally. He came here intentionally.”

“But not sent by Jagger?”

Carolyn considered the matter. “No. This was a dumb stunt. I'll stick with my first guess. Emmet Swinter. Or … Vince Harmston might have been dumb enough to do it.”