The Angry Dream (11 page)

Cole brought Luckham’s sedan around behind the coupé. For a moment I couldn’t move. Luckham had picked up the shotgun where I had it leaning against the seat. He held it on his lap, looking across at me.

“What do you mean?” I said. “So you found Sam Gunther.”

“Just drive to the office.”

“How’s for an explanation?”

He said nothing; he just waited. Finally I started the car and drove on toward Pine Springs, Luckham holding the shotgun.

I parked the coupé in front of the sheriff’s office and Cole drew up with the sedan and got out and opened my door.

I looked at him. His face was very sober. He jerked his head, motioning me out. I climbed out and he slammed the door. Luckham was out on the other side. We went on inside the hot office and Cole closed the door.

“What’s this all about?” I said.

Luckham took his Stetson off and laid it on top of the desk, then looked at the shotgun again.

“This the one you used?” he said.

“You’ll have to tell me what this is all about,” I said.

Cole stood beside me, watching me.

“You lie to me,” Luckham said, “and I’ll break your head, Harper. I’ll break your head, you hear?” He said it very calmly, looking at the shotgun. He broke the gun, looked down both barrels, then closed it again. He looked sick today, his eyes like dirty cream.

“Cole,” he said, “lock the door.”

Cole left my side and I heard the latch click.

“Now, show him what I mean about breaking his head.”

Something struck me viciously on the right temple. As I reeled and went to my knees, I knew it had been the flat of a revolver. The pain was awful and I couldn’t see, kneeling there on the floor. The pain began to go away and I tried to get up. My vision cleared. I stood up and looked at Cole. He was sitting on the pile of books under the girly calendar, holding his revolver, waiting.

“That’s a promise,” Luckham said.

“You must mean Sam Gunther is dead,” I said. “You couldn’t mean anything else.”

“Good
night!”
Cole said.

“Oh, he’s a guesser,” Luckham said. “He’s a champeen.”

The room was very silent for a time.

“Show him,” Luckham said. “Show him, and then tell Curtiss it’s all right to call for it. Tell him to come around the back way and pick it up; I don’t want them walking through here.”

Cole stood up and motioned to me. We went to the door where the cells were. We walked down a short hall past the three cells to another door. He opened the door and there was a small woodshed out there. On the floor, lying on a blanket just beyond the door, was the body of Sam Gunther. His knees were up, his arms curiously twisted, one up under his head. He looked a little like a man resting, only the man had only half a head and it was too cold in the woodshed to rest, anyway. The left eye of the corpse was open wide, bits of leaves and stuff resting on the eyeball.

Cole closed the door and we went back to the office. He picked up the phone, and started talking.

“Now that we all know what we’re talking about,” Luckham said with a trace of sarcasm, “everything’s jiffy. We saved him for you, because after all it was dark last night and we wanted you to have a good look at him.” He rubbed his eyes with both thumbs. “You deserve that, at least.”

Cole hung up. “He’s coming right over,” he said.

Luckham went on speaking to me. “Lolladue tells us it happened last night, which we realize is right. Two boys found the body, Harper—ain’t that a dirty shame?”

I began to feel sick.

“These two boys, they saw you when you came down off the hill,” Luckham said. “They told us you were running, Harper—carrying a shotgun.”

I did not speak.

“You know how boys are. They’re curious and suspicious. Even when there isn’t anything to be suspicious about, they’re still suspicious, because they can make a game of it. See? It’s all very mysterious and interesting, like a movie they probably saw last Saturday in Westfield. See?”

My right ear continued to ring.

“These two kids, they got to thinking about your running with the shotgun, looking back up there, like—and they thought all night about it, see? And they decided they’d trail where you were.”

“You’ve got this all wrong,” I said. “All of it.”

Luckham slowly waved his head from side to side.

“Nope,” he said. “The snow didn’t cover your tracks. Snow drifted on the other side of the fence, and most of your footprints were left. Them two kids trailed you, Harper—clear to Cross Glen and they found the body—rather their dog found it. The wind had cleared it, but they said maybe somebody had tried to cover it with leaves. Scared ‘em.”

“You’ve got it wrong.”

“Doc Lolladue says it happened last night. Says it was a shotgun. Now what were you and Sam doing up in Cross Glen?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Why would I kill Sam Gunther?”

“Because he was making a play for your girl—that’s why? And maybe because of a lot of other things, too.”

“What girl?”

“Noraine Temple.”

“How do you know this?”

“We know.”

“Listen,” I said. “I didn’t do it. You’ve got to believe that. I didn’t! But something’s going on—and it scares the hell out of me. I can’t find Miss Temple.”

Luckham moved lazily in his chair. “Tough,” he said.

“Isn’t it tough?” Cole said.

“I was at my place,” I went on. “I saw a man come down off the hill, so that much is true. But he threw something beside the road. I didn’t recognize who it was. I went over there and found the gun and that’s when those two kids saw me.”

“An inventive genius,” Luckham said.

“It’s true, though,” I said. “I took the gun to Riverton this morning, over to Bob Isaacs’ gunshop. He said he made that shotgun for Weyman Gunther.”

“So he made it for Weyman Gunther. So what?”

“Have you seen Weyman?”

“No.”

Luckham was looking up at me, the white pouches beneath his eyes even heavier than usual. And it began to come to me about Weyman more and more. The kind of man he was, the way he had been back there in school days. It scared me, and I was trapped here, with Luckham certain I had killed Sam Gunther. And what if Weyman had Noraine?

“We saw Miss Temple last night,” Luckham said. “When we stopped by to see Sam about a little thing. She was all alone in the house out there, waiting for him. He’d stepped out for a while.”

Cole stood up and walked around behind me.

“You don’t seem to realize,” Luckham said. “We know you killed him.”

“I tell you I didn’t. You’d better go find Weyman Gunther—I’m telling you that.”

Cole hit me again. I had seen Luckham motion with his head and the blow caught me in the back of the neck. I staggered forward and fell across Luckham.

Luckham gave me a shove. “I liked you,” he said. “I was on your side. And now look what you’ve done. You’ve been lying all along. You’re lying right now—it’s written all over your face. Well, we’re going to change your face, Harper—and maybe that’ll bring out the truth.” He came out of the chair in one swift movement, drawing his gun. Right then somebody started beating on the door.

“Let me in! Open the door!”

It was Lois. Luckham’s hand dropped, but he continued looking at me.

“Let her in,” he said softly.

Cole went to the door and unlocked it.

Lois burst into the office. Her head was bare, the black hair snarled.

“What are you doing to him?” she said.

“Nothing,” the sheriff said. “Nothing, Miss Gunther. It’s just he killed your father, but he won’t admit it.”

Her gaze found mine and there was a look in her eyes that I did not like. Then she turned to Luckham. “That’s what they said. Everybody told me. And you’re wrong, Sheriff.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes. I was with Al last night. We were together at his house, all night—until early this morning. So you’ve got the wrong man.”

Luckham sat down heavily in his chair, not looking at anything, searching the floor.

“That’s the way it is,” Lois said.

“That right, Harper?” Luckham said.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you say that?”

“You wouldn’t have believed it from me.”

Lois touched my arm, her eyes anxious.

“Am I free to leave?” I said.

Luckham said, “Yes, you’re free to leave.” He sounded as sick as he looked.

“Come on, Al,” Lois said.

We went outside and I closed the door. She kept holding to my arm and there was a softness about her mouth, her eyes very bright, a spot of bright color on each cheek.

“I’m sorry about your father, Lois.”

“Never mind about that,” she said. Her expression did not change. “I’ve got something to tell you, Al.”

Her white Jaguar was parked in the road behind the coupé. I didn’t want to go with her. Maybe she really thought we
had
been together all night. She’d been drunk when she came to the house.

“Where are we going?” I asked her.

“Home. Come on, we’ll use my car.”

We got into the Jaguar. But she didn’t start the car.

“So now I’ve lied for you,” she said.

She watched me.

“I didn’t come to your place until very late,” she said. “It must’ve been three, or later—because I was in Riverton last night. I was everywhere last night. Only I finally came to you, because I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“Why did you lie for me?”

“Don’t you know, Al?”

I did not speak.

“There’s something I’m going to tell you, Al. I don’t quite know how—but I’ve got to tell you. You’ve got to help me.”

The only thing I could think of was Noraine and that I wanted to see her and tell her how wrong I had been about everything.

“Did you kill him?” she said.

“No.”

“I was pretty sure you didn’t, Al. I couldn’t figure why you would—unless you knew what I knew. And even then, I couldn’t see why you’d kill him.

“It doesn’t matter that he’s dead,” she said. “Can you understand that. I’m glad he’s dead, Al—it simplifies an awful lot of things—I mean, he was never like a father at all, Al.”

The wind drew past the Jaguar, carrying snow with it. You could watch it become darker and darker and I became more and more worried. In another moment, I would have to leave her.

“For a long time,” she said, “it’s been kind of funny at our house. What I mean is, my father always seemed to have plenty of money. Only he never did anything to get it. I used to ask him—so did Weyman—but he only laughed. He told us he had business in other towns. Every week or so he went away. Three years ago, I found out—almost three years.”

She spoke softly, slightly twisted under the wheel of the sports car. It was cold inside the car.

“Go on,” I said.

“One time I saw him. You remember the springhouse, out back? Well, he went out there an awful lot. Only this time I saw him come back with something in his hands and I hid in the kitchen. It was money. I went out there and I found it—a wooden box of money under a stone slab—a piece of slate, Al. So much money it was terrible!”

I could say nothing. Her face was very pale.

“So one time I told him I’d found it. He said it was his, that he kept it there because he didn’t believe in banks.”

“Lois—don’t you see?”

“Yes. Of course, I thought of that—that he’d taken it from the vault. But I never said it to him and he never talked about it again—except for one thing.”

“What?” My voice was very loud.

“He said as long as Weyman and I lived with him, we could have whatever we wanted—but that if we went away, we wouldn’t get a cent.”

“So you stayed on.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. No—”

“Only I knew that sometime I would take that money and go,” she said, and her face changed now. “I knew that, Al. I didn’t know when. It would be when I got fed up here, or when—and then you came back, Al.”

She moved slightly toward me, her eyes shining in the shadowed darkness of the car.

“So I went out to the springhouse today, this afternoon. And the money was gone, Al!”

I felt her hand on my arm and the fingers clenched. “Al, you’ve got to help me find it—it must be around somewhere. It’s got to be.”

“Did you go in the house?”

“No, I was looking for you—I was crazy, Al—and then somebody said the sheriff had you down here. So I came. Al, we’ll find the money and go—we’ll go together.”

“We’d better get up to the house,” I said.

She started the car and we drove off swiftly.

“We’ll find it,” she said. “I know we will.”

“Lois?”

“Yes?”

I looked at her profile. We came fast through Pine Springs, the engine roaring and echoing in the night.

“There’s something
you’ve
got to know.”

“I should be sad,” she said, “but I can’t be sad! I know we’ll find that money, and it’s ours, and we’ve got each other.”

“Lois!”

“Yes?”

“You’ve got it wrong. It’s not that way with me. I thought it was that way, but I was wrong.”

The car began to slow a little.

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean it’s just not that way for me, Lois. I thought it was—and I’m sorry. I’m in love with Noraine Temple.”

She slammed on the brakes. The Jaguar slithered in the road, bounced on the shoulder and stopped. Her hands were bare and white on the wheel, tightly clenched. She seemed frozen.

“Are you all right?”

“Damn you!” She screamed it. “Damn you!”

She started the car abruptly and we tore on up the road, the engine roaring louder and louder. She turned up the road on the hill and the wheels struck the snow-covered gravel of her driveway. She hit the brakes ruthlessly. The car slid out of control, smashed against the front steps leading to the entrance of the house, and halted. She got out and stood there a moment looking up at the house. I came around the front of the car.

“Are you all right?”

She gave a short laugh, not turning toward me.

The front of the house was open and I heard someone running inside, the loud slap-slap of feet. I went up the front steps and through the door into the house.