River Girl (14 page)

I walked out to the car with her and opened the door. She stood very close to me for a moment, looking up, then she said, “Good night, Jack.” I pretended not to notice the warmth in her voice.

“Good night,” I said, and watched her back out of the driveway.

I took three of Louise’s sleeping pills, and still it was a long time before I got to sleep. Doris was there, just beyond me in the darkness, and when I would start for her Shevlin would be there too, putting his hand up to his chest and looking toward me as he started to fall to the floor.

The pills made me oversleep a little. I got up and shaved and dressed and then looked around the house, not knowing why I did it, for it didn’t mean anything at all. I’ll never see it again, I thought, or Louise, and it doesn’t mean a thing. I stood for a moment in the front door, then closed it and went on down the walk. Four years were just overnight in a hotel room. I had breakfast at Barone’s and got to the office about half past nine. Buford was already there, with Hurd, and Lorraine was looking for something in the files. Buford nodded abstractedly, and then Lorraine put the paper on his desk. I went over and sat down and started looking at the morning newspaper.

“Say, Jack,” Buford said, turning around in his chair, “you ought to know your way around that lake pretty well, the number of times you’ve been up there fishing. You like to take a trip up there today?”

“Sure,” I kidded. “Can I take my fishing tackle?”

“Not today.” He sobered. “I just got a tip this man is up there near the end of the lake somewhere. You ever see him?”

He handed me the notice on Farrell. I looked at it. “No-o. I don’t think so. Wait a minute, though. Maybe I have, at that. When I was fishing up there yesterday. Man was having trouble with his motor. No, he was older than this. Must have been forty-something and much thinner.”

“That picture was made ten years ago. It was probably him, all right. The dope I got on him is that he’s living in a shack pretty far up the lake. Take this along, and make sure you’ve got the right man before you bring him in. The tip may be a false alarm. You know how it is.”

“O.K.,” I said. I went over and got the gun and a pair of handcuffs. “I’ll rent a boat and motor down at the store.”

“Watch yourself, in case he is Farrell. He’s wanted for murder. You want Hurd to go along?”

I looked at Hurd and winked. “Not unless he wants to handle the motor while I troll for bass.”

“O.K., then. You’d better get started. It’s a long trip.” He reached for his hat. “Wait and I’ll walk down with you. I want to get a cup of coffee.”

At the bend of the stairs there was no one in sight for a moment. He took an envelope out of his coat and handed it to me and I shoved it in my pocket. “Good luck,” he said. “And remember what I told you.” Don’t come back, I thought. Out on the sidewalk there were several people standing around and we couldn’t say any more. “I’ll see you tonight,” I said, and he waved and started across the square toward Barone’s.

I went down to the garage for one of the county cars. While I was waiting for it I ducked into the rest room and checked the envelope. It was all there, in hundreds, fifties, and twenties.

The boy brought the car down and I got in and headed up past the square. It was beginning to be hot now, and I could hear the pigeons cooing up under the eaves of the courthouse.

You remember Jack Marshall? I thought. Big fellow, lived around here a long time. Quite a football player in high school. Daddy was a district judge, but he never did amount to much. Got to be a deputy sheriff and was killed out there in the swamp somewhere. Never did find his body.

Marshall? Jack Marshall? Name sounds familiar. Whatever became of him, anyway?

I swung around the courthouse, and then I was headed out the street going south toward the highway.

As I drove down toward the south end of the lake, I was busy with the fact that Shevlin hadn’t gone all the way down there yesterday with his fish. It wasn’t a very big thing, but I knew it could lead to talk. When I had parked the car by the boat place I walked across the road to the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee. The proprietor himself, a sour-looking man in his fifties, was on duty behind the counter. He brought the coffee and then went back to looking at the morning paper.

“You know anything about the people who live up the lake?” I asked.

He turned a page, glancing up at me once and seeing the gun and the white hat. “Ain’t many up there now. Used to be a few trappers, but most of ‘em are gone the last few years.”

I took out the wanted notice and shoved it across the counter. “Ever see this man around?”

He studied it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Don’t think so. Looks a little like a man up there I buy fish from once in a while, but he’s older than this.”

I knew he had recognized the picture, all right, but was reluctant to get mixed up in anything involving the police. He said nothing about the fact that Shevlin hadn’t shown up yesterday.

“This is an old picture,” I said, rambling on like a fool. “It’s probably the right man, all right. I was up the lake about ten miles yesterday, and ran into him. His motor was broken down. Something wrong with the ignition, I think. I offered to give him a hand with it, but he said he was going to row back to the house and work it over.”

“Oh?” He said nothing further, but I was pretty sure I’d cleared up Shevlin’s failure to appear, in case it came up later.

“You don’t have any idea where he lives up there, do you?” I went on.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Except that it’s pretty far up, I reckon.”

I bought a couple of sandwiches from him for lunch and went back across the road. The man with the boats recognized me from yesterday and looked in surprise at the gun and the deputy’s badge. “Going to try ‘em again today?” he asked. “No,” I said. “This is just business. I’m looking for a man who may be living up the lake.”

I rented a boat and motor and shoved off. “I’ll be back sometime this afternoon,” I called out as I pushed away from the dock.

It was a little after eleven. I had nine hours between now and the time I was supposed to met Dinah out there on the road. Handling the boat almost automatically on the broad areas of the lower lake, I tried to think it all out logically to see if I had taken everything into consideration. It was necessary, first, that I go all the way to the cabin. This was principally to make sure that there was no one fishing near it. It would be bad if some fisherman testified later that he had been just below the place all day and had never seen me go past, for it had to appear that I had gone to the cabin, taken Shevlin into custody, and started out with him.

There were a few boats on the lower part of the lake. I passed three or four before I got up as far as the slough where I had always launched my own, some five miles up from the store. After I passed that point I began to tighten up and worry. I could feel the tenseness growing inside me as each mile slipped back in the wake of the boat, and I stared with apprehensive eyes as I rounded every bend in the channel. Of course, if I met anyone fishing, the only thing I could do about it would be to remain above him until I was sure he had gone back down the lake. Obviously, I couldn’t have someone see me come back down alone. And if someone testified that he had been fishing fifteen miles or more up the lake all day and had seen me go up, but never come back, it would lead to the conclusion that Shevlin had probably resisted arrest and killed me up near his cabin, which I didn’t want at all. That would lead to a concentration of the later search for my body around the cabin itself, where Shevlin was buried in the lake. If they started dragging the lake around there, they might find him. Buford, after all, had to make some pretense of trying to solve the mystery. And, too, the newspapers would be full of it, with dozens of conjectures as to what had happened, and the swamp would be full of volunteer searchers for a long time. If, on the other hand, no one saw me go up or come down, the searchers would have no idea at all in which part of the thousands of acres of sloughs and channels and marsh Shevlin had disposed of my body. And since there would be no evidence of a struggle around the cabin, the theory would be that I had started out with him, got careless, and let him jump me somewhere below, after which he disposed of my body in some out-of-the-way backwater, went back for his wife after it was dark, and then escaped. That was the way I wanted it.

Another thing I had to do was to be sure I knew where to turn off to the east to get into the slough that led far across the bottom toward the road and the small stream where I would meet Dinah. I had been up it once, years ago, and thought I knew where it came out into the channel of the lake, but I wouldn’t be able to waste much time looking for it. As I went up I kept a sharp watch, trying to remember what had distinguished it from the dozens of other inlets and sloughs leading off on that side. As I recalled, it was a little larger than the others, and where it came out into the lake the point of land between it and the lake itself had a narrow shelf of sandy beach instead of the mudbank and the tangle of underbrush characteristic of most of the lake shore. By the time I was a little more than halfway up to the cabin I began to look for it in earnest, wondering if I had already passed it, for as I remembered, it was about ten miles up from the store. The slough itself led out across the bottom in a generally northeasterly direction and the small stream that flowed into it crossed the county road over on the east side of the swamp some fifteen miles above the highway, as I had told Dinah. After another mile or two went by, I began to worry, fearing that I might have my landmarks wrong and had passed it without recognizing it. Then, at last, I rounded a turn in the channel and saw it. I looked around carefully at the general location after I had gone by, to be sure I would recognize it without trouble on the way down. Of course, I could still be mistaken, but I was pretty sure that was it.

I had nothing to worry about except meeting another boat. I looked at my watch. It was a little after one, and I should be there by two or shortly after. In an attempt to relax and relieve the tension that grew with every bend in the channel, I unwrapped one of the sandwiches and tried to eat it. It was dry and tasted like cardboard, and I threw it into the lake. It’s not much more than five miles now, I thought. There’s not much chance I’ll meet anybody this far up. But still, you never can tell. And right here would be the worst possible place, this near to the cabin. Turn after turn unfolded ahead of me, the lake flat and empty in the midday heat. I came up past the place where I had camped, rounded the last bend, and relaxed all over with a deep breath of relief. There was no one anywhere.

I’d better go up to the house, I thought, just to make sure everything looks all right and that nobody has been there. I had just swung the boat about, to head into the slough toward the landing, when I noticed it. There was something odd about the surface of the lake just above, a peculiar sheen or color to it that did not look right for the position of the sun. It seemed to have the appearance calm water sometimes has at sunset. I turned to look at it again, but the view was cut off by the trees as the boat entered the slough. Just imagination, I thought. Too much strain, and my nerves are beginning to play tricks on me. Then, for some crazy reason, “the multitudinous seas incarnadine” ran through my mind. For Christ’s sake, I thought, I’m getting as jumpy as an old woman.

I was still thinking about it, though, as the boat nudged against the landing. I made it fast with the anchor rope, and then remembered I should refill the gasoline tank of the motor from the can of fuel in the bow. I took off the cap and found the funnel, and when I was unscrewing the cap of the can I spilled a little of the gasoline oil mixture into the half inch or so of water in the bottom of the boat. I looked down at it, indifferently at first, and then, as I watched it spread, with growing horror, while I turned cold all over as with a sudden chill.

Frantically I pushed the boat off and started the motor. Swinging hard around, I headed at full throttle out into the lake, terrified, already knowing what it was and cursing the stupidity that had ever let me fall into such a terrible blunder. No wonder the surface of the lake had looked odd! I swung right as soon as I was out of the slough, heading up the lake toward the spot where I rolled him from the boat. I was at the outer edge of it now and plowing toward the center, looking all around me at several acres of water covered with the microscopic and iridescent film of oil.

It was that outboard motor. I had started to empty the fuel I had heard splashing around inside the tank, and then had changed my mind, thinking it not worth the trouble. There hadn’t been much more than a pint of it, but now, lying on the bottom of the lake, it was being forced drop by drop out of the airhole in the cap and was coming to the surface to spread out into a monstrous and inescapable marker over his grave. There was no faintest breath of air to form a ripple on the water, the surface lying as still and unmoving as glass, with the result that it had spread out evenly over an incredible expanse for so slight an amount of oil, so thin it would be completely invisible except for the sheen of color reflected from the sky and sun.

I cut the motor and let the boat drift, trying to get hold of myself enough to think. The oil was going to be here; there was no current in the lake to move it, and there was nothing I could do about it now. Nothing, I thought desperately, except to find the spot where the motor was lying and see if more was still coming to the surface. If there was, I had to stop it. But how?

Taking up the oars, I pulled slowly along, watching the surface of the water. There was no way to tell exactly where it was, so I turned and rowed back toward the shore to get my bearings. Bringing the boat up near the bank just off the place where I had reached it yesterday to put him aboard, I lined it up and started pulling very slowly, stern first, out toward the center of the lake. When I thought I had come almost far enough, I quit rowing and let the boat come to rest, not moving about in it to set up any motion of water. Sitting dead still and swinging only my head, I began a minute scrutiny of all the area for twenty feet or more around the boat, on both sides and in front. The film of oil was slightly heavier here, and I knew I was very near the spot. Two or three minutes went by and my eyes began to ache with the bright sunlight and the staring. Maybe there isn’t any more, I thought. Maybe it has all leaked out by now. Then I caught it, a glimpse of changing color seen out of the corner of my eyes, some ten feet ahead of me and to the left. I stared fixedly at the spot, waiting, almost afraid to blink my eyes. They began to sting, but I held them there, and in a moment I saw it again, quite plainly this time. A drop of oil had come up out of the dark, tea-colored water and spread, shining and iridescent in the sunlight, the colors changing as it thinned out across the surface. With my eyes fixed unwaveringly on the spot, I picked up the oars, gave them one shove, and then reached around for the anchor and dropped it. I was right over it.

Now what to do? I looked up and down the lake, afraid again of other boats or fishermen, but the long reach was devoid of any form of life or movement. I was alone in the whole immensity of the swamp here in the bright heat of the middle of the day, but still I could feel the stirrings of panic within myself. Perhaps it was because already, without thinking about it, I knew what I was going to have to do and I was afraid of it. The oil on the surface of the lake was something I couldn’t do anything about, except possibly to spread and scatter it by running through it with the boat and motor, but the oil in itself might not be too dangerous. After all, it would eventually disperse, collecting on the big leaves of the pads and the old snags and growth along the banks, and whoever saw it would probably believe that someone had spilled some fuel while refilling the gasoline tank of his motor, and think no more about it. But this other thing, this oil bubbling up here in one spot, a drop at a time and maybe going on for weeks, putting more and more on the surface, would be sure to arouse curiosity and eventually somebody would start dragging for whatever was down there. I had to stop it.

I sat still, thinking. The valve was probably shut off. There was very little chance that the fuel was leaking out there. That meant, then, that when the motor had come to rest there in the mud on the bottom it had been nearly upright, or tilted in that direction, and as air escaped from the tank and water forced its way in, the water naturally pushed the fuel up into the top of the tank, where it was escaping now, drop by drop, and might go on indefinitely.

I had been trying to evade it in my mind, dodging around it and never coming face to face with what I knew; but now, with all other escape cut off, I turned and faced it. I had to go down there. But could I? I could feel the weakness and revulsion take hold of me at the thought. He had been down there a little over twenty-four hours, in that warm water, and I knew that by now he wasn’t alone. I shuddered. I just couldn’t do it.

Was there any other way? I knew there wasn’t. The water was twelve feet deep and I couldn’t reach it with an oar. Trying to drag the anchor over it would be a futile waste of time. It had to be that way or not at all. It wouldn’t take four seconds, I thought. All I would have to do would be to locate the valve, make sure it was shut, and then tip the motor down so the water and fuel inside the tank would change positions. I could do it in one dive. And it’s either that or go away and leave it the way it is, knowing that sooner or later somebody is going to get curious about the source of all that oil bubbling out of the bottom of the lake. I stood up in the boat and started unbuttoning my shirt.

The water was warm. I lay in it, naked, alongside the boat, with one hand on the gunwale, trying not to think of anything except the motor. I can’t wait all day, I thought. If I don’t do it now I’ll lose my nerve. Shutting my mind to everything, to all thought, I took a deep breath and dived. I seemed to go on for a long time, pulling myself down with powerful strokes of my hands, wanting to turn back but forcing myself to go ahead. It must be twenty feet deep instead of twelve, I thought wildly, and then I felt the soft mud under my arm. I was against the bottom. This was the terrible part of it now. Pulling upward against the water with my hands to keep myself flat against the mud, I groped around with them, feeling for the motor. There was no use in opening my eyes to try to see, for at this depth in the discolored water there would be no light at all. I swung my arms around wildly and felt nothing. My lungs were beginning to hurt and I thought of the boat above me, knowing I had to come up carefully as I approached the surface or I might bang my head into it. I couldn’t wait too long. Putting my feet against the mud, I sprang upward, bringing my arms up over my head to feel for the boat. I missed it and came out of the water gasping for breath.