Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (22 page)

Alex felt the time was right. "If you insist."

Forcing all his might behind the punch, he threw his fist sideways into Hart's head. Hart slumped onto the ground, and moved no more.

Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. The eyes of the entire bar were on the boy who had somehow knocked out Hart McGee.

Sarah and Anthony were both completely struck dumb. "He actually won," Sarah whispered, not quite believing it.

Alex looked up at the bartender. "He's unconscious. What do I do with him?"

The bartender looked at him blankly. Then he said, "It's all right. He's been knocked out before. Take him ter his house, at the end of the street behind the bar."

"Thank you," Alex said. "Sarah! Anthony!" he called. "Help me carry him!"

As they dragged Hart's body out of the still-silent bar, they heard the barkeep's voice behind them. "Do ye want yer drink?"

"I didn't want a drink!" Alex called behind him. "I wanted to know that I could get a drink!"

They rifled through Hart's pockets to find a key that looked right and used it to open up the door. Hart McGee's house was small and dingy, with only a kitchen that looked like it was never used, a bedroom that doubled as a living room, and a small bedroom. They heaved him onto the bed, which seemed to be the only one--apparently, nobody else even lived here.

"While he's still out," Anthony said, a glint in his eye, "he won't mind if we use his shower."

Mercifully, the remote village appeared to have running water, and after taking turns they felt cleaner than they had in weeks, even though the shower was weak and there was no soap. After that, they went to sit in Hart's bedroom. After what felt to Alex like about an hour, he groggily stirred.

"Where am I?" he asked predictably.

"You're in your house," Alex said.

"How did I get here?"

"I knocked you out, remember?"

Hatred suddenly flashed across Hart's eyes. He rose up and made to grab at Alex with one hand. Evidently, however, the strain was too much for him, and he collapsed back on the bed with a defeated gurgling sound. "Okay," he sighed. "How much?"

"What?"

"How…much…do…you…want?" Hart said slowly, as though Alex did not speak English.

"You mean money?"

"We do need money," Anthony began, but Sarah slapped him and he remained quiet.

"We don't want money," she said.

Hart looked genuinely confused. "You knocked me out and you don't want a reward?"

"Why would I want a reward?" Alex inquired.

Hart sighed. "Because it's my job. I fight people for money. If I win, I get money. If I lose, you get money. It's simple."

"We don't want money," Sarah said, as a pained expression lingered on Anthony's face. "We just need you to tell us a few things."

Alex suddenly grasped what she was talking about. He hated to admit it when Sarah was right, but she had had a good idea.

"First, is there anywhere here where we can sleep?"

"This guy runs a sort of motel on Main Street. It's pretty cheap."

"Second, is there anywhere we can get food?"

"There's a general store on the same street. They sell some stuff," his eyes lingered on Alex's clothes, "and they sell shirts, too."

"That's good to know. And third…"

"What? What's third?"

Alex grinned again, a glint in his eye. "Do you have any guns? And do you have any ammo?"

Hart looked at him, wondering what Alex would need with guns, and then he nodded. "I have a pistol. And a lot of bullets."

"That's all I need to know," Alex said. "Thank you, Hart. Get some rest."

As he walked out of the room, Hart called to him.

"Alex. I…"

"Yeah?"

"You're…sort of a drifter, right?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

Hart's face had softened from his usual cold stare to a pitiable expression. "I want to come with you."

Alex was taken aback. "What?"

Hart gestured around the house. "My life sucks. It doesn't take a genius to know that."

"Hart, you're…you're the most respected person in the town. And you're only thirteen."

"I beat people up! I get paid! I have no family! I have no friends! I could only rely on fighting to get me through life…and then you just walk in and beat me by throwing one punch. I've got some serious rethinking to do."

Alex considered for a long time. Finally, he looked up.

"All right."

They agreed that Hart would meet them on the road leading out of town the following morning. As they walked out of the house, Anthony blew up at him.

"Have you lost your mind!?"

"Anthony, what is the--"

"The last thing in the world we need right now is somebody else tagging along!"

Alex did not know what to say. "I…um…he…"

Sarah saved him.

"Hart's right about himself, Anthony. He lives by himself and fighting is his entire life. If he comes with us…he'll get a second chance. And he deserves that. Everybody deserves that."

"She's right, Anthony. Remember when I met you? You had that wound in your side. I was suspicious. And you still haven't told me where it came from."

Anthony hesitated for a moment, choosing different words to say but always dropping them the moment they left his mouth. Finally, he exploded again.

"
I was selling drugs, okay!?
"

"Huh!?" said Alex and Sarah at the same time.

"I was selling drugs! I wanted…I wanted to get back at my stupid parents! Worthless, fat, lazy slobs! Never cared about me at all! I figured, what would they think if their kid was a drug dealer!? But I had this one client who was insane…if I was ever late with his fix he'd start raging…one day he just went a little farther than usual."

And he lifted up his shirt to point out the bandaged gash.

They replenished their stores of food and bought several plain shirts each at the general store, throwing their grimy old clothes in the garbage.

After that they bought a room in the motel. Late that night, Anthony was asleep and snoring loudly. Sarah, sleeping on the sofa, turned to Alex.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?" he said sleepily.

"Do you think we can do it?"

"Do what?"

"Everything. The train. Sawtooth. Living on our own."

Alex rolled over in his bed. "If I think either way it won't change what happens."

"You're dodging the question."

"I am not. We can't say what will happen. We have to make it ourselves."

CHAPTER 16

William X

Machry stared at the writing scrawled on the treehouse wall with a kind of mysterious amazement, rereading the words, "Charles Johnson, William X" over and over again, knowing they meant something important but not understanding at all what they meant, no matter how many times he read them.

He needed a lead badly, he knew it. He had to figure out Ordoñez's motives. From what he had figured out to save Alex, it made sense that Ordoñez was the killer of the three men--he had, after all, been the only one at every crime scene. But why was he doing this? Was he aiming to frame Alex? Aiming directly for Alex? And whom did he work for?

Machry slowly climbed down the rope ladder, thinking hard. The soft crunches of his footfalls on the snow mirrored the workings of his mind: ideas, falling slowly, resting underfoot, and then crunching as he realized that explanation after explanation was preposterous.

In his job, he had learned one valuable piece of advice: when you're getting information, the first thing you need to know is who's giving it to you. By that token, he first needed to know who had written the cryptic words.

There was a small art supply store in downtown Woodsbrook. Half an hour later Machry returned to the treehouse with a large piece of thin paper and some dark pencils, and set about tracing the scrawling, which looked as though they had been made in marker. He knew that only three people had been in this treehouse since it was built: Alex Orson, Jake Harwell and Sarah Jones. Alex, he could already check.

Back in his office Machry pulled a sample of Alex's handwriting, which Jake had donated to him. It was a very odd situation: Machry needed Alex's signature, but Jake didn't want him to know he was being represented or he may not have left. Thus, Jake found an old piece of homework, which Alex had signed at the bottom, and Machry had copied his signature, knowing that if Alex had heard what was going on, he would have given his consent simply because of the ingenuity of the plan.

Machry rifled through his desk and found the paper, then used the office copier to make a smaller copy of the scrawling. Looking at the writing, he suddenly realized he had a problem: in his rush to investigate he had forgotten that he was not an expert in handwriting analysis.

He looked up from his desk, as if hoping a solution would appear in front of him. Instead, he saw Dave, his fellow social worker, reading a stack of papers and growing more evidently bored with each one. Suddenly, a thought struck Machry.

"Hey, Dave?"

Dave looked up, glad for an excuse to drop the papers. "Yes? Need something, Henry?"

"Your brother--what's his name? Gary, that's it. He's a cop, isn't he?"

Dave looked puzzled. "Um, yes…something been stolen from you?"

"Well…" Machry was not quite sure how to explain his situation. "I have a matter on my hands which I think is slightly above my pay grade. Or for that matter, anybody's here."

Comprehension dawned on Dave and he groaned. "Henry! You're not still obsessing over Orson!"

"I think I've found a lead."

"He's dead! Gone! It no longer matters whether he was a killer or not!"

"Dave, I know who did it. I need to know why. I found something written on the wall of his treehouse, and I think I have to have some sophisticated technology. Only problem is, I don't want the cops in on this or they'll shut me out of the investigation."

Dave considered for a moment, screwing up his face. Then he said, "I guess I can't change your mind. I'll get Gary on the phone."

"Thanks a lot, Dave. I really mean that."

"I'm just warning you, Machry. It's for your own safety that I'm telling you to drop this. The trail might lead to people you don't want to associate with."

The next morning Machry found himself in the office of WPD Police Sergeant Gary Henderson, sitting across the table from a man who looked a lot like Dave, only more stern, weather-beaten and weary, and probably older. "So, I hear from my brother you have something you'd like to run through the machines?"

Machry shifted uncomfortably in his seat--the man's presence was imposing. "Yes, sir. Your electronic handwriting analyzer?"

Gary rose from the desk and exited the office, motioning for Machry to follow. He did, and was led through the bustling station into a room filled with technology, all of which looked like it was often used and very expensive. Gary pointed at one machine.

"This one here's the handwriting comparer. Do you have the samples you want to put in?"

Machry produced the copy of the treehouse writing, the sheet of paper from Alex, some writing of Jake's and a paper of Sarah's the orphanage had given him.

"All right," Gary said. "You put the main sample in this slot." Machry slid the copy into a small opening, and it was pulled in, appearing seconds later on a screen. "Now, put the one you want to compare into this other one." Machry complied.

The sample of Alex's handwriting appeared on the screen beside the original scribble. Machry and Gary watched the screen for a short time before red words flashed across it: NO MATCH.

Gary tapped a button and Alex's paper flew out of the slot; Machry took it back and inserted Jake's writing into the opening instead. Once again, red words appeared: NO MATCH.

Losing confidence now, Machry pushed Sarah's writing into the slot. The machine seemed to ponder for a longer time this time, before finally deciding in green letters: MATCH.

Machry tapped the button and received the paper. "Thank you, Sergeant. I might be coming back soon, though."

"I look forward to it," Gary said gruffly.

Machry left the station, feeling his search was not a complete waste.

Now that he knew Sarah Jones had written the words, the next thing he needed was to find out what Sarah knew that would make her write them. On the trail of this information, driving aimlessly around Woodsbrook in his failing old car, he decided that the orphanage would be his best bet.

Mrs. Hanscomb, the director of the part of the orphanage that had once been Sarah's home, was much less cooperative than Sergeant Gary Henderson had been.