What the Dead Men Say (12 page)

    “Goes over town on a completely innocent errand and gets himself mixed up in some kind of robbery.”

    “I see.”

    “No offense, but you know how it is when you get tied up goin’ to court and everything.”

    “Yes, ma’m, that’s one thing I’m very familiar with.”

    “Poor Dennis. He won’t be happy to hear that.”

    “No, ma’m.”

    “But I s’pose it’s his civic duty.”

    “Yes, ma’m.” He paused and said, “Where might I find him, ma’m?”

    “He went fishing.”

    “Do you happen to know where?”

    “He’s got a favorite spot just north of here. Up near the bluffs.” She pointed in the direction of ragged clay hills. “He’ll probably be back in a few hours.”

    “Oh, I’m sure I can find him, ma’m.”

    Wariness showed in her eyes again. “You seem to be in a pretty big hurry to talk to him.”

    “Just like to get this settled so I can head back on the evening train.”

    “And you say you’re a special deputy?”

    “That’s right, ma’m.”

    “Working with the sheriff?’

    “Yes, ma’m. Down from the capital to help on the jewelry investigation.”

    “Never heard of such a thing.”

    Ryan smiled again. “It’s an election year, ma’m.”

    “Election year?”

    Ryan nodded. “The governor makes his special deputies available to anybody who asks.”

    “I see.”

    “Good politics, ma’m.”

    The suspicion died in her voice again. “I suppose.” She put her face up into the air the way a small dog might. “You can smell rain coming. Dennis’ll probably get soaked.” She nodded to Ryan. “You tell him I’m working on that cake I promised him.”

    “I’ll tell him, ma’m.”

    She gave him a curious look, then. “And tell… tell him I’m thinking about him.”

    Ryan knew that she really wanted to say “Tell him I love him,” but that she was too inhibited. Somehow she knew, Ryan saw; knew what was really going on, much as she tried denying it to herself.

    Ryan tipped his hat. “Good luck with that cake, ma’m.”

    But she was still giving him that curious, wary gaze. She didn’t say good-bye. She just nodded and wiped her hands on her apron again and went back inside the house, closing the door behind her.

    

    

    By the time Ryan went over the hill to his buggy, the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Plump, clear drops that were hot against the skin. He wished he hadn’t liked the Kittredge woman as much as he had. He felt sorry for her. What he was about to do would destroy her life forever. He wished she could have been mean or stupid or offensive in some way.

    He got in the buggy and started up the dusty trail that wound into the red clay foothills.

    He kept thinking of the Kittredge woman. Maybe because he saw some of his own sorrow in her. They were not unalike, the two of them. Maybe that was it.

    

    

    Half an hour later, the rain was coming down hot and slow. Black clouds covered the already faint sun. It was dark as dusk and the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Coming up over the clay cliffs, Ryan smelled how the rain stirred up the dust and gave it a chalky odor.

    He leaned against a poplar and looked down at the bank below. The creek was wide there, deep and fast enough to look treacherous for animals, and the water hitting the surface of it made wide, soft circles.

    He hefted the Winchester, aimed, and shot the hat directly off the head of Dennis Kittredge.

    Kittredge put on a little show. Knowing that there was nowhere to hide, that he was several precious yards from either boulders or trees, he pitched himself to the right and started rolling in the dust.

    Ryan put another shot a few feet ahead of where Kittredge was about to light.

    This time Kittredge let out a crazed animal yelp. A fella didn’t like to think that circumstances were completely beyond his control, but obviously they now were.

    “Just stand up, Mr. Kittredge,” Ryan said, starting down the slope, keeping the Winchester right on Ryan’s chest. “That way you’re not likely to get shot.”

    Kittredge got to his feet. His fishing pole had rolled off the bank and dropped into the water.

    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kittredge said. Unlike Carlyle, Kittredge didn’t seem so much frightened as angry. He was casual enough to dust off his trousers.

    Ryan didn’t answer. He came down the clay to the bank and then put the Winchester in Kittredge’s face.

    “You know why I’m here, Mr. Kittredge.”

    “I know why you say you’re here. I talked to Carlyle. He said you think we had something to do with a bank robbery.”

    Ryan smiled. “We’re beyond pretenses, Mr. Kittredge. I’d say ask Carlyle, but I’m afraid you can’t do that. Not anymore.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “It means he’s dead.”

    For the first time, some of Kittredge’s anger waned and something resembling fear narrowed his eyes and pulled his face tight. “You kill him, Ryan?”

    “I did.”

    Kittredge didn’t say anything.

    Ryan said, “You should’ve seen it. He was pleading with me to do it.”

    “I don’t want to hear about it.”

    “He was on the ground and I put the rifle hard against his nose.”

    “He didn’t have that coming.”

    Ryan considered him a long time. “It’s my understanding you don’t have any children, Mr. Kittredge. It’s my understanding that your wife can’t bear you any.”

    Kittredge glared at him.

    “Then you can’t appreciate what it is to lose a child. Oh, I know that you
think
you can, Mr. Kittredge. But believe me, until you see your child-”

    He didn’t finish the sentence.

    Thunder rumbled across the sky; lightning trembled gold and silver beneath black clouds. The rain fell in stead, monotonous drops.

    Ryan said, “Anyway, Mr. Kittredge, it’s not something you can imagine. It’s something you have to experience.” He smiled at Kittredge. “You know what my daughter’s very last words were to me, Mr. Kittredge? I’ll never forget. She came up to me from the back of the store and said, ‘Daddy, I’d like to take the bank deposit over now. Then I’m going to stop and pick you a bouquet of flowers because I love you so much.’ Those were her very last words, Mr. Kittredge.”

    Kittredge let his gaze fall to his feet.

    Ryan said, “She never did get to pick me those flowers, Mr. Kittredge. I keep wondering what kind she would have gotten me.” He looked at Kittredge and smiled again. “What kind do you think she would have gotten me, Mr. Kittredge?”

    Kittredge said nothing. He would not look up.

    “You think she would have brought me roses, Mr. Kittredge?”

    Nothing.

    “Or maybe daisies.”

    Nothing.

    “You going to answer me, Mr. Kittredge?”

    Kittredge shuffled his feet. Still he said nothing.

    “Seems to me an intelligent man could make an intelligent guess about what kind of flowers she would pick for her father, Mr. Kittredge. Roses or daisies or zinnias.”

    Kittredge’s head came up slowly. He looked at Ryan for a long time.

    Kittredge said, “I’m sorry your little girl died, Ryan.”

    “You didn’t answer my question.”

    “I really am sorry.”

    “Do you think she would have picked roses for me, Mr. Kittredge?”

    “This won’t bring her back. Killin’ Carlyle or killin’ me. It won’t bring her back, Ryan. It won’t bring her back.”

    Ryan hit him so hard with the butt of the rifle that Kittredge easily went over backward, his arms flailing all the way down.

    Ryan went over to him then and kicked him once, hard in the face. You could hear his nose shatter and splatter. Right away the bleeding was bad.

    Ryan said, “If you think I’m going to get it over with fast, the way I did with Carlyle, you’re wrong, Mr. Kittredge. Carlyle didn’t have the brains of a rock. But you-you and Griff-you’re smart men, responsible men. So you’ve got a special price to pay and you’re going to pay it.”

    Through a very bloody mouth, his eyes wild now the way Carlyle’s had been, Kittredge said, “I’m sorry about your little girl, Ryan. I really am.”

    This time Ryan kicked him hard on the side of the face, along the jawline.

    Kittredge rolled into the dirt, facedown. He made moaning and sobbing sounds.

    The rain hit Kittredge’s back so hard it sounded like bullets being absorbed by the flesh.

    The creek rattled with rain now.

    Ryan stood over Kittredge and then finally he took the rope from his pocket.

    Ryan said, “Here you go, Mr. Kittredge. Here you go.”

    

    

    By this time James was beginning to think his uncle had forgotten him. James had been sitting in the restaurant for two hours now, looking and watching out the rain-streaked window, and he was beginning to feel like a little boy kept indoors by a spring downpour.

    Every ten minutes or so the hostess would come around and ask if he wanted another spafizz but James would only shake his head and smile bleakly.

    Then he would turn resolutely back to the window, expecting his uncle to be there suddenly, like a gift left on a doorstep.

    It was while he was watching that he saw the girl across the street trip on the boardwalk and go falling to her knees in the mud. Her parasol went flying into the path of a wagon. The horses trampled right over it. The girl, not one to take such a slight politely, raised her tiny fist and shook it in the direction of the retreating wagon.

    Several of the older male customers inside the restaurant had also watched this little nickelodeon adventure played out in the rain and mud. They rubbed their muttonchops and patted the plump bellies they’d covered with silk vests and pointed to the girl.

    One man said, “It’s that young whore Liz.”

    Looking into the street again, James saw that it was indeed the girl he’d spent much of last night with.

    Another stout man laughed. “A little mud never hurt a girl like that.”

    Liz obliged her oglers by starting to stand up, mud clinging to her hands and arms and the whole of her skirt, and promptly falling right back down to her knees.

    The men in the restaurant began poking each other and pointing out of the window as if they were spectators at a particularly funny play.

    “Too bad she doesn’t put on a show when you go up to see her,” one man laughed.

    James, disliking the meanness and arrogance of the men, got up from his chair and started running down the aisle to the door. He tromped hard on one man’s shoes as he fled out the door, stomping down directly on the instep. This was the man who’d referred to Liz as a “young whore.” The man cursed James and shook a fat fist in the boy’s direction.

    The rain pelted him immediately. It was a cold rain and hard. It was also difficult to see through.

    He waded out into the street that had become a vast mud puddle. He sank in halfway to his knees. The mud made faint sucking sounds as he raised and lowered his feet.

    He noticed that several people stood on the boardwalk under the overhang pointing to Liz and smirking much as the men in the restaurant had. It was obvious they knew who she was and what she was and would make no move to help her. The women twirling their parasols and peering out from beneath their picture hats looked particularly mean.

    The street was so swampy it took him two full minutes to reach her. By this time she had fallen over yet again, and now even her face was mud-spattered.

    She didn’t recognize him at first. She was obviously angry and hurt and ashamed and so instead of thanking this helpful stranger, she tried to slap him.

    The people along the boardwalk started laughing again.

    James took the hand she meant to slap him with and said, “Don’t you remember me, Liz?”

    There in the drenching rain, there in the echoes of the crowd’s harsh laughter, she narrowed her eyes and looked more closely at him. “You’re the kid from last night.”

    He noted how she said that. She had not called him by name. There had been no warmth or even surprise in her voice. She was simply identifying him.

    He said, above the rain, “I had a nice time last night.”

    She shook her head. “Kid, just help me get out of here, will you?”

    But he felt hurt. “Didn’t you have a nice time?”

    Now she shouted above the rain. “Maybe you didn’t notice but they’re starting to laugh at you, too.”

    “Let them,” he said. “I just want to know if you had a good time last night.”

    “I had a great time.”

    “You don’t sound as if you mean that, Liz.”

    There in the rain, them both shouting, both soaked and mud-mired, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and said, “You know something, kid? You really are a kid. A sweet one.”

    The crowd found this even more wonderful entertainment. A few of them even applauded.

    “Will you help me get across the street to the boardwalk?” Liz said.

    He slid his arm in hers. “I’d be proud to.”

    She smiled at him uncertainly. “You haven’t been drinking again today, have you, kid?”

    He smiled back. “Not so far.”

    

    

    They walked across the street, step by inching step. By now James was mud-soaked, too.