The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (25 page)

Chapter Forty-seven

McIntire had no way out of driving the boys back home in the he-man Power Wagon. Off the hook for the time being, they sat in the back and blabbed all the way like two old biddies who were suspected of nothing more serious than cheating at bingo.

Their conversation mainly took the form of words spoken too low for McIntire to hear over the engine.

Sam leaned over the seat and shouted in his ear, “Hey, can't this wreck go any faster?”

“No, it can't.”

“Doesn't it seem kind of funny that the sheriff's car will only do about twenty miles an hour, and the priest drives a hot-rod?”

“Yes, it does.”

He was tempted to just drop them off at the end of the drive and be on his sluggish way, but he couldn't leave without letting Mary Frances know what had transpired. He got out and trailed the two toward the house.

Before he made it to the door, Sam was in and back out. “They're gone!”

“What's gone?”

“Everybody. Ma, Claire, Joey. Nobody's here!”

“Maybe they've gone to visit somebody.” The kid's expression reflected the stupidity of McIntire's suggestion. Mary Frances Hofer was not out gallivanting around the neighborhood. Nine chances out of ten it was another medical situation. Having her sons hauled off to be questioned about their father's murder probably hadn't done much for her health.

“I'll go see what I can find out.” McIntire headed back to the car. “You two stay put!”

If there'd been an emergency, they'd have gone to the nearest phone to call Guibard. That would be Mia's.

McIntire didn't want to go to the Thorsens' again. He wanted to go home, see if he had a letter from Leonie, put his feet up, have a bottle of beer, read the paper, sit and watch the sunset, and go to bed early. He was tired of it all. He was beginning to not give a damn who killed Reuben Hofer.

Maybe Reuben's sister was right. The important thing now was to take care of his wretched family, try to put some the pieces back together.

But somebody
had
done it. Somebody had stood at the edge of that field and, with absolute premeditated intent, had sent Reuben Hofer's brains, and his life, dripping onto his feet. Whoever had done it was walking around now; talking, laughing, eating, sleeping, like nothing had happened.

Nick was in back of the sauna, poking wood into the heater. He waved and started his awkward shuffle up the path. McIntire hurried to meet him.

He confirmed McIntire's guess. Mary Frances had suffered a major heart attack. They'd taken her to Ishpeming in an ambulance, and Mia had gone along.

“The two kids are in the house. Is it true what they say?” he asked. “Koski's arrested the older boys?”

“He took them in and gave them a feeble once-over. I just brought them home.”

“Well, you'd better watch your back. The young lady's on the warpath. She thinks you've locked them up and thrown away the key.”

“Well, you can set her mind at rest. Have you heard from Mia? What's the outlook?”

“Not good. She was after me to get hold of Father Doucet, but he's gone to see somebody in Au Train. She figured they wouldn't wait around, that they'd get the priest in Ishpeming to give the last rites, so I guess it's looking bad.”

“Maybe it was just a precaution. If I run into the father, I'll let him know.”

“Okay.” He stared into the setting sun. “I guess I have to feed those kids.” He spoke over his shoulder, “sauna'll be ready in an hour or so.”

***

McIntire ran into Doucet sooner than he expected. The priest was just loading Sam and Jake Hofer into his car. Their cheerfulness of earlier was gone. Now they may well have been tried and convicted, and being transported to the gallows.

Doucet crossed the yard to lean against the side of the wagon. McIntire was glad to, for once, be able to speak to the man without getting a charley horse in his neck.

“I'm taking them to their mother.”

“I figured that. Claire and Joey, too?”

“Not right now. They probably won't let the young ones into the hospital, and it might not be the best for them to see their mother in her present state. I'll be back for them soon as I can.” He stood straight but didn't leave. “I take it Jake and Samuel were questioned today, about their father's death.”

“Not precisely. They were questioned about their mother's shotgun.”

“They shouldn't have been questioned at all. They've been through enough, all of them. Look what it's done to their mother, just at the time they need her most.”

“I understand that,” McIntire said, “but we're talking about pre-meditated murder here.”

“Those boys didn't kill their father.”

“Those boys hated their father, they had a shotgun, and it's gone now.”

“Their house was burglarized. You might leave the Hofers' alone and go after the guy who did that.”

“We have. The person who ransacked Hofer's house has confessed.”

“Who?”

“They haven't been charged yet.” McIntire invoked his own confidentiality standards. “But we're reasonably sure they didn't steal the shotgun. They'd have no reason to lie.”

“Unless they shot Reuben with it.”

It was a thought, but, according to Mary Frances, the gun had been in the house after her husband died. Of course Mary Frances hadn't been entirely truthful. It would be ironic if, in an attempt to protect her sons, she was unwittingly protecting Bruno Nickerson or her husband's former lover.

Doucet sped off in his customary cloud of dust, and McIntire lumbered along behind him, kicking up an equal amount, but without nearly the
panache
.

There should be something he could do, but he couldn't think what. That evening with the beer, watching the sun go down, held little attraction for him now. Those two kids were alone in the care of Nick Thorsen, of all people. They weren't stupid; they would know their mother might be dying. They needed somebody to take care of them. Given how they felt about McIntire, his presence would be worth less than nothing.

There was a letter from Leonie in the box. He propped it against the sugar cannister, while he opened a can of spam. He couldn't keep his eyes off it, her exuberant handwriting, so familiar in its illegibility, so reassuring.

He sliced off a hunk of the Spam and chopped it into Kelpie's dish. The remainder he sliced, fried, smothered in canned pork and beans, and heaped onto a plate. Only when he sat with the plate in front of him, did he open the letter.

Clear out the dancing girls, I'm on my way, and I'll be bringing impressionable children.

He place the paper face down on the table and ate. When he'd swallowed the last tepid bean, he picked it up again. The words “bringing” and “children” were still there, and still contained within the same sentence.

As she had suspected, Stevie and her husband, Angus, weren't getting on so well. It was a difficult time, and they all agreed that it would be better for Chuckie and the girls to take a trip to America with Grannie until things were sorted one way or the other. They'd sail from Southhampton on the twenty-seventh of July. She was excited about seeing her horses and garden—were the beans ready to pick?—and him, of course.

The beans might be ready, if you could find them amidst the tansy weed and thistles. How much time did he have?

The unreasonable belief that Leonie's return would put an end to the dismal happenings of recent days filled him to the tips of his fingers. He felt a sudden urge to do something—something to make it true.

He chucked Kelpie under the chin. “I think,” he said, “that there's enough daylight left to cut the grass.”

The spaniel made no move to join him, but wagged her moral support.

McIntire looked out at the ancient reel mower buried in shin-high grass, and wished he hadn't been such a cheapskate. After ten minutes searching the porch shelves for a whetstone and the can of oil, he headed out the door.

Chapter Forty-eight

Nick sat on the porch, feet on the railing, looking more like the pre-Parkinson's Nick than McIntire had seen in months. “You walk over?” he asked.

“It was that or the Koski Wagon, and I wanted to get here before morning. Battery's dead on the Nash.”

Nick held the old familiar tumbler in his hand. The children had either given him a new lease on life, or driven him back to his old ways. He displayed the amber colored liquid. “Iced tea,” he said. “Want some?”

“Hell, no. You teetotallers are a smug bunch of SOBs. Sauna still hot?”

“Hot enough for the likes of you. Help yourself. It looks like you could use it. What the hell you been up to? No, don't tell me. I'm off to bed, now I've got the little tykes all tucked in.”

“Mia's not back yet, I take it.”

“No. She's still at the hospital. I called a half hour ago to make sure she wasn't lying in the ditch somewhere.”

McIntire bid his host goodnight and took the path to the sauna. Before he went inside, he stopped to throw a few more sticks of wood into the heater. When he looked back at the house, a light shone from the windows in his old bedroom. At least one of the little tykes wasn't completely tucked in.

He stripped himself of the oil stained trousers and the sweat stained shirt, and peeled off the grass stained socks. Maybe his washing would keep until Leonie got back. With Chuckie and the girls. Good lord.

He stepped into the steam room, filled the bucket from the barrel of water, threw a dipperful onto the rocks, and gasped. It was hot enough for the likes of him, all right, and probably ten degrees hotter at his level than at Nick's. He wet down the wall and turned sideways to lean against it, stretching his legs the length of the bench. That was better. Hot, but not boiling his brain. He splashed another dipper of water onto the stones and felt a trickle of sweat down his side.

What would it be like to have children in the house? He only knew two children, four if Sam and Jake counted, and they all couldn't stand the sight of him. Didn't like him much, anyway. What did Koski have that he didn't? Was cowboy boots all it took?

The warmth and the aroma of cedar lulled him into a doze that soon became solid sleep.

A noise roused him, a dull scraping sound followed by a rustle coming from the dressing room. Company? “Nick, that you?” There was no answer, but McIntire could sense a presence on the other side of the door. Mia? Oh, lord, it couldn't be. He held his breath. The outer door opened, then softly, gently, closed. She'd thought better of it. McIntire felt relief and a flood of guilt that accompanied his undeniable twinge of disappointment.

The next sound obliterated all thought of illicit romance—unmistakable, the scraping again, and this time he knew that it was the bolt to the outer door being slid into place.

“Hey, I'm in here!”

A scuffling, whispery as a mouse, and then, from over his head, a metallic thump against the stovepipe.

“Open up!” It was pointless; whoever had locked the doors was well aware that they'd trapped him inside.

Thin tendrils of smoke snaked out from the seams in the cast iron heater. The first thought that came was total disbelief. Someone had locked him in and stopped up the chimney. Someone who wanted to smoke him like a ham. The second thought aroused sheer terror. He knew how fast smoke could kill. Minutes, maybe even seconds. He was naked, armed with only an aluminum dipper to break his way out, and the place was built like Fort Knox.

One more sound assaulted his brain. The door of the stove creaked open. More wood thrown in. Stoking the fire to roast him.

“Are you crazy? Let me out of here!”

The room was already choked. McIntire flung himself onto the floor and pressed his mouth against the narrow crack under the door. Nothing ever tasted so good. Shouldn't there be a vent in the room somewhere? He sucked in a breath and twisted away. There it was, high above him, an eight inch opening in the wall—into the dressing room. It too would soon fill with smoke. Here on the floor he might have five minutes left.

The stove was cemented into the wall. It was the single vulnerable spot in the room. If he could knock the stove out…but it was red hot and piled with sizzling stones. He had water, a fifty-five gallon drum full to the brim. Could he somehow use it to put out the fire? If he could knock the stovepipe from its connection to the chimney maybe he could pour water into the heater, onto the fire. It would never work; the place would fill with smoke within seconds after the stovepipe fell, before the water did any good.

The water. A barrel filled by the recent rain with water that ran off the roof. It had to get in some way. McIntire twisted away from the air again. A copper pipe protruded through the logs and ran down the wall to drain into the drum. He could try to snap the pipe at its joint near the ceiling or to shove the barrel from under it to get at its open end. The second option seemed safest. He braced his feet against the barrel and pushed. The drum barely budged. He put his mouth back to the crack. He'd try again when he recovered some strength.

Chapter Forty-nine

Claire lay in bed, her heart beating like a hammer in her chest. She'd done something brave. John McIntire would be locked in the sauna house, with the pail over the chimney, until somebody went looking for him. And he'd be sick when they found him. Sick from the smoke, too sick to break down the door. Nobody would know it was her. And if they found out, how could they blame her? He took her brothers to jail, and he made her mother have a heart attack. She might not have saved her brothers, but she'd avenged them. John McIntire would regret what he'd done to them, and they'd owe it to her.

It was a long time before her heart beat slow enough so she could fall asleep, and then, before knew it, Joey was shaking her. The light was on, but it was still night outside.

“Wake up. Nick says we have to get up and come downstairs.” He hurried out the door in just his undershorts, but Claire put on her jeans and blouse before she went down. Nick wasn't there, or Mia Thorsen either, only Father Doucet.

“Where's Nick?”

“He's gone back to bed.” Father looked at Joey. “Get some clothes on.You need to come with me.”

Joey went right back upstairs, but Claire asked, “Where to?”

“You'll see.”

That didn't tell her anything, and she went to the bathroom. When she came out, Joey and Father Doucet were standing by the door.

“Shouldn't we tell Nick where we're going?”

Father Doucet put his hand on Claire's shoulder. “He knows. But I didn't mean you. It's Joey that needs to come.”

Up until then, Joey had looked excited. Now he looked down. “I want Claire to come, too.”

Claire wasn't sure she wanted to go anywhere, but Joey was scared to go by himself.

Father Doucet twisted his mouth, like he couldn't make up his mind. Joey started to sniffle, and finally Father looked at his watch and said, “Okay, then. Let's get going.”

Spike was jumping around, all worked up, but Claire didn't even dare ask. She put on a sad face, so maybe Father would feel sorry for her, and for Spike, but he didn't seem to notice. She patted Spike and hugged him tight. “Sorry Boy, you have to stay.” When she shut the door on him, he had a sad face, too.

The moon was big and bright, and there were a million stars. Another light twinkled through the bushes—the sauna. Claire wondered if she should tell that John McIntire was locked in. But then Father would wonder how she knew about it. She could pretend that they should go turn off the light, because somebody must have forgot. But as far as she was concerned John McIntire could suffer all night.

Claire would rather have sat in the front seat next to Father Doucet, but he made both her and Joey get in the back with a pillow and a scratchy army blanket. Father started the car. “Lie down and get under the blanket. It will be a long drive.” It was warm enough; they didn't really need a blanket, but he waited until they were all tucked in before he took off.

“Are we going to see Ma?” Joey asked.

Father just said, “Not right now.”

They drove for a long time. Joey fell fast asleep, snoring almost as loud as Jake did. Claire wished she'd begged harder about bringing Spike, but he might puke in the car.

It was strange, lying on her back, flying along through the dark, not being able to see a thing but shadowy tree branches and a moving glow now and then from Father's cigarette. Moving through the world, but not being in it. Like her real life was just a dream, and she was a ghost.

It was getting cooler. She put her feet on Joey to keep them warm and pulled the blanket up around her chin. Father Doucet started to sing. It wasn't very loud, and she didn't understand the words.

“Is that another language?” She asked.

“It's French.” Father sounded like he was in a dream, too. “It's a song my mother used to sing when I was a little boy.”

“Is your mother in France?”

“She was. She's passed away now.”

Passed away. Maybe that's what Claire's would have to learn to say,
“My mother's passed away, and my father's passed away, too.”

Father's cigarette glowed again. “All of my family are dead.”

She didn't ask, but he told her anyway, “They were killed in the war. By the Germans.”

“You mean…? All of your relatives?”

“Yes, they lived in a small village. The German soldiers came and made all the people in the village go into the church. Then they locked the doors and set fire to the church, so everybody died.”

Claire just plain didn't believe it. Soldiers fought the enemy, and the enemy was other soldiers. “Even the babies?” she asked. “Even the grandmothers?”

Father Doucet said, “Yes. Even
my
grandmother.”

Claire still couldn't believe it, but Father wouldn't lie, and he was talking to her like she was grown up, so Claire asked, “How did you escape?”

“I wasn't in France then. I already lived here.”

“So the Germans couldn't get you.”

“No.”

“My father wanted us to sing German songs sometimes, maybe they were songs his mother sang when he was a baby,” she told him. “But we didn't know what the words meant, because we don't talk German.” She added, “Sister does.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”