Scare Tactics (43 page)

“I suppose so,” Val admitted. “But I don’t remember. I was lost, and scared. I just heard a couple of voices; I wasn’t trying to ...”

“Val, are you sure you’re leveling with ...”

The boy suddenly jerked upright on the bunk, his face contorted.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what they said!” he yelled. “All right, Val, you’re not helping yourself by getting violent.”

“Helping myself?” he said in a choked voice. “What chance have I got to prove I didn’t kill that Childs and some little kid I never heard of?”

“Right now the best thing you can do is settle back and try to remember as much as you can of what happened at the reservoir last night.”

“I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

“Don’t do that to me, boy. You’ve started a story that involves another man in events directly anticipating the death of Fletcher Childs. That’s your story, but you haven’t offered any proof at all that someone else was there last night. If you could just recall a few words ...”

“I’m trying,” Val said wrathfully.

Practice let the boy alone. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk, holding his head in his hands.

“One thing,” Val said.

“What do you remember?”

Val pursed his lips, and then, in a fair imitation of Fletch Childs’s voice, said, “ ‘I’ve done everything—but destroy him with my own hands—and you’re not grateful. Well, now I’ll tell him the truth—and you can go to hell!”’

“Was there a reply?”

Val’s lips twisted. “No. Right after that Childs started screaming. And then all at once he stopped. It was quiet. I heard something like a door slamming open. Then I heard the wind. And then footsteps, right outside the room I was in. I froze like I was dead. Someone came in. I didn’t even breathe. He came right up to the bed and I felt him standing there, it seemed like five or ten minutes. Then something cold touched my throat, right here.” Val demonstrated with a fingertip on his jugular vein. “I knew it was a knife and that he was going to cut my throat, but I couldn’t move or open my eyes. I don’t know why he didn’t do it. Maybe he thought I was already dead.”

“The man went away then?”

“I guess he did. I lay there for a long time after, listening, hut I couldn’t hear a sound. Finally I took a chance that he was gone. I got off the bed and crawled to the door and pulled myself up and went out into the living room. But nobody was around. It was almost dawn.”

“Did you search the house?”

“No! All I wanted was to get out of there. I had to sit down for a few minutes because I felt so bad, but as soon as I could walk okay I went out. Childs’s Imperial was parked in front of the house and the keys were inside. So I took the car.”

“Val, how did you know that Fletch was dead?”

The boy’s head sagged. “I just knew, that’s all. After hearing him scream, and all. I figured the guy who put the knife against my throat had killed Childs, too.”

Practice had a knotted feeling of disappointment in his stomach. In contrast to the way Val had described his visit to the Governor’s mansion earlier, the crucial part of his story seemed vague and unconvincing. Practice realized that he was pulling for Val, that he wanted to believe him.

“Where did you drive?” he asked.

“Where?” Val looked surprised. “Here. The city.”

“Why come back here?”

“I had some money hid away. About sixty bucks. I needed that money. Then ...”

“Then you were planning to run.”

“I was in trouble. I figured with the car and sixty bucks I could make it to California ...”

“You’re too bright to have figured anything of the sort. You were driving a stolen car. You wouldn’t have lasted twenty-four hours on the road in it. You were running because you were panicked silly.”

“Wouldn’t you have been?”

“Let’s leave my emotions and reactions out of this; they aren’t relevant. What time did you return to Osage Bluff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think, Val. You went directly to the furnished room you kept?”

“About eight in the morning. I left the car three blocks away. An Imperial in that neighborhood ...”

“How long were you in your room?”

“About ...” Val’s eyes shifted away, and he licked his lips. “About an hour and a half, maybe two hours. I wasn't feeling so good. My arm hurt and I had the shakes.”

“But you stayed in your room all that time. You didn’t go near the Borden school?”

“No. Why should I? That would have been a stupid ...”

“So you left your room, as near as you can remember, around ten o’clock in the morning. You walked to where you had parked the car, got in, and started for California.”

Val nodded.

“And during the two hours you were in Osage Bluff, did anyone see you? Did you talk to anyone?”

“Maybe somebody saw me.”

“Who?”

“You know, on the street. Nobody who ...”

“Let’s go back to ten o’clock. You were headed for California. How did you know which highway to use?”

“There were some maps in the dash compartment. I looked them over.”

“So it was about ten-fifteen when you started off.”

“I guess so. I wasn’t counting time.”

“And you didn’t stop again until you were near the Kansas line. You stopped there because you felt too bad to go on.”

Val nodded again.

“What time was that?”

“About two-thirty or three.”

“That was your first stop in something like four and a half hours?”

Val shrugged.

“Or did you stop for gas along the way?”

“I had to. The tank wasn’t even half full when I left Osage Bluff.”

Practice relaxed and sat back in his chair.

“Where did you stop, Val?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying any attention.”

“You must have some idea.”

The boy scowled. “I said I don’t know. When the tank was empty, I stopped.”

“Did you stop in a town?”

“Some small town. I don’t know the name.” 

“How long had you been driving?”

“I don’t know. I just drove.”

Practice stifled his impatience. “Val, it’s absolutely necessary for you to remember where you stopped. Yesterday afternoon, about one o’clock, a small boy was murdered in the old prison near the Borden school.”

“I know about that,” Val said tightly.

“You worked at the school and you’d been there several months. You had plenty of time to get acquainted with the boys, with Chris Guthrie, the Governor’s son. Did you know Chris Guthrie?”

“I knew him.”

“Did you ever talk to him?”

“A couple of times. Why shouldn’t I?”

“What about?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did you ever mention the prison to him?”

Val- seemed to have grown smaller and more remote as he sat on the edge of the cot, staring down at the floor.

“Look,” he said, “I took that crummy job because I couldn’t get anything else. No other reason. So what if his—what if this kid went to school there? I didn’t know that. When I found out who he was, I—can you blame me for being curious? For—I spent a lot of time, just—watching him. You’ll find that out; the regular janitor caught me at it. Then I—I tried to figure out ways to approach the kid. Once I gave him an old baseball and once a piece of cake. I never talked to him when we were alone; there were always other boys around. I didn’t have anything against the kid. He was—you know, he wasn’t a jerk like a lot of them are. He sounded okay to me. I wasn’t
—jealous
of him or anything like that.”

“Weren’t you, Val?”

“No!”

“Did you tease him about the prison?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dare him to explore it or something like that?”

Val’s hands clenched tighter.

“He’ll remember, Val. You might as well tell me.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Practice sighed almost inaudibly.

“So it was stupid and childish. That doesn’t make me out a murderer.”

“I don’t know what it makes you out, Val. There was an attempt on Chris Guthrie’s life three years ago. Only a couple of weeks later you committed yourself to the state hospital. You’re the illegitimate son of the Governor of this state. You’ve admitted sending him a threatening letter. You destroyed one of the Governor’s dogs and demolished his bedroom in a fit of passion. It’s reasonable that the feelings you had for Guthrie could easily be extended to his—legitimate—son. By your own admissions you made several efforts to get close to Chris Guthrie and plant the notion of a rather dangerous escapade in his mind. Yesterday, Chris and his friend sneaked away from school at the lunch hour and went to the prison. They were followed by someone who either knew they would be leaving or happened to see them as they left. In the prison they were surprised by this person and ran for their lives. Hugh McAdams was caught, trussed up in a sack, and nearly cut to ribbons by a long knife or a sword. Chris escaped by hiding in a well. I don’t know if he got a good look at the killer; the light is poor inside the prison. One thing he’ll remember: it was your idea to go there. The District Attorney will make sure he remembers. There’s no real evidence yet that you killed either Fletcher Childs or Hugh McAdams, but the circumstantial evidence is impressive. As far as I know, nothing but your unsupported word stands for your defense. You have no evidence that Fletch Childs received a visitor in the middle of the night at the reservoir. You have no way to prove you were a hundred miles away from Osage Bluff at the time Hugh McAdams was murdered. Oh, you bought a tank of gasoline, hut you don’t know where.”

“I’ll remember where!”

“Do that. And then prove you didn’t turn around and drive back to Osage Bluff in time to murder that boy. It’s a lousy story, Val. You ought to be able to see that.”

“If you don’t like my story, then make up one to suit yourself, but let me alone!”

Practice didn’t reply. He had hoped to jar Val’s memory by pointing out to him the need to document every minute of his time for the past twenty-four hours. For someone like Val, a habitual lone wolf, it would have been a difficult task under the most ordinary circumstances. Now he was charged with two deaths, and his inability to provide any sort of adequate account looked only like the desperate evasions of guilt, which, perhaps, was the only answer.

Practice wasn’t sure now how he felt about Val St. George. The boy was all but unapproachable. He was bitter and hostile. And yet, in the few moments when his desire to be helped had overcome his innate suspicions, the story he had told sounded like the truth. Practice could believe in the Val St. George who had been forced to kill one of the German shepherds, and had been sickened and angered by his own violence. But the image of Val St. George deliberately murdering a man and a small boy wasn’t nearly as persuasive. Logically he could be guilty of both murders. Practice glanced again at Val, who was trembling now on the bunk. He saw a thin, vulnerable youth who had spent the better part of three years living on dreams, stalking the shadow of his father with self-confessed heroic intent.

Practice wondered if it weren’t time for John Guthrie to meet his other son. Perhaps if Guthrie talked to Val ... But the shock might be more than Val could survive just now.

Troubled and uncertain, Practice rose.

“I’m going now, Val. Is there anything at all I can do for you? Would you like some cigarettes?”

Val shook his head. Practice hesitated, thinking that he had something to say.

“She’s written me off, then?” Val whispered. “She thinks I killed her brother and she’s written me off.”

“What else is Lucy going to believe?”

“Tell her I didn’t do it. Tell her I didn’t kill anybody, and that’s the truth. I don’t care who else believes it. But tell her ...”

He didn’t seem able to say more. Practice studied the boy’s bent head, then walked to the door and let himself out.

Mike Liles was waiting in the hall.

“Has he loosened up any?” Liles asked.

Practice pulled out his pouch of tobacco and began to make a cigarette.

“He told me his story. I don’t think any of it can be proven, Mike. But I don’t think he’ll change it, either. There’s something about that boy I could admire, under other circumstances. If his life had been a little less thankless he might have ...”

Liles yawned and deposited the coffee container he had been drinking from in a nearby wastebasket.

“We’ll see if he sticks to his story.”

“Mike? Couldn’t you let him sleep for a couple of hours? He’s worn down to the bone.”

Liles shrugged. “Then this is the best time for me to work on him. Christ, Jim, the kid has killed twice. Didn’t you get a good look at that McAdams boy?”

“I saw all I wanted to see,” Practice said grimly.

Liles gave him a long look. “I think you want to believe St. George is innocent.”