The Angry Dream (8 page)

Herb Spash had been stabbed seventeen times in the back, sides, throat, face and arms. The murder had apparently taken place in a running fight from Spash’s shack on Cat Creek, out across the thawing grounds of the mill, until he finally fell just beyond the ditch into the road. Spurts of blood colored the ground along the staggering path his feet had followed. He was sprawled on his back and the entire front of his head from hairline to chin had been smashed to a red meaty pulp, mingled with white shards of bone.

Near the ditch where the dead man lay was a pile of broken slump block. A large, jagged chunk of the block had been used to finish the poor fellow off. Spash’s right arm, curiously, was raised into the air from the elbow, the fingers formed into a claw. It was a hell of a thing to see.

“Found a shotgun!” somebody called, running up. It was a young fellow with a round red face, wearing a dark mackinaw. “Busted all to hell—found it back there by the fence. Still loaded—smashed—looka the stock!”

The stock was badly splintered.

Sheriff Luckham had been kneeling by the body talking with a slim middle-aged man in a trench-coat. I recognized the man as Dr. Lolladue, who had set up practice in Pine Springs only a year or two before I left.

“Odd thing about rigor,” the doctor was saying in a raggy voice, his mind preoccupied. “Sometimes it can fool you. Take this one, for example—he’s getting stiff already. Look at that arm, too—frozen, like. Still, there’s blood in the road here that hasn’t even coagulated—liquid, almost, there. Damn.”

Luckham nodded. He had already seen me. He turned to the young man with the shotgun. “Give me that, sonny,” he said.

He began looking at the shotgun and nodding sagely.

“Well, Harper?” Gunther said.

I looked up at him standing on the pile of block. I wanted to hit him. He stood there rocking a little on his heels, holding Noraine’s arm, forcing her to occupy the grandstand seat along with him. She had her face turned away and every now and again, she tugged at him as if trying to pull away. He kept saying, “Now, now, honey—it’s all right. Just a sec.”

Everything of what had happened the other night out in the snowy fields rushed back into my mind. I turned away and started back toward the coupé.

“Here, Harper!” Gunther said.

I kept walking. Noraine hadn’t said a word to me.

“Tom?” Gunther called.

“Wha—oh!” I heard feet pounding along toward me. Luckham was bearing down on me, almost at a run.

“Where the hell you think
you’re
going?”

I did not answer him.

He reached for my arm. I jerked my arm away, looking at him. He didn’t reach again. He was carrying the shotgun.

Gunther and Noraine stopped about five feet away. Noraine was watching me. Her eyes said absolutely nothing.

Over by the body, I saw Weyman Gunther, talking and gesticulating in front of Lolladue. His glasses glinted in the bright spot from the sheriff’s car.

Luckham showed a great deal of bluster. He wore no coat, only a khaki shirt, khaki pants and high-tops and the heavy black gun belt and gun.

“You and me are going down to the office for a little talk,” Luckham said.

“What about?”

“Take a little guess, Harper.”

Weyman came along and paused by his father’s side, his eyes on Noraine. He watched her with a kind of steady, deliberate concentration, his glasses glinting. Noraine was wearing a tan coat, hooked around the throat, and it gaped in the wind. Under the coat she was wearing a white sweater which appeared to be extremely tight and Weyman Gunther was concentrating on her. I saw her move, trying to pull at Sam’s arm. Sam wouldn’t budge. Weyman glanced into her eyes and grinned, then down at her flaring coat again. He edged closer to her, then still closer.

“We figure you might know something about this,” Luckham said. “That right, Harper?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how he means,” Sam Gunther said.

“Why don’t you take your girl friend and beat it?” I said.

Noraine’s face reddened, the high color showing even in the shadows.

“Enough of that there,” Luckham said. He raised his eyebrows and the brim of his hat moved. “Did you see Herb tonight?”

“Yes. I talked with Herb.”

Luckham glanced at Gunther. Gunther nodded and poked Noraine with his elbow. Weyman continued to stare at her and she was beginning to bridle now.

Luckham said, “It’s a good thing you didn’t try to lie. I saw your car parked in there by the mill not long ago.”

“You did?”

“That’s right. And you weren’t in it—I checked. I was just cruising around.”

“Why do you talk to him like that?” Weyman snapped suddenly, his pale face turned toward me. “Throw him in jail! He killed him—you know that.”

“Quiet, Son,” Sam said.

Weyman looked at his father, his mouth tense and white.

“You were back there with Herb, Harper,” Luckham said. “There was fresh snow and your tracks went right back there.”

“There was no fresh snow,” I said. “And when I left Herb, he was still alive—drunk, but alive.”

Dr. Lolladue came up behind Gunther, poked his head over Luckham’s shoulder. “Near as I can tell—and it’s hard telling—Spash hasn’t been dead more than a half hour.”

“Later,” Luckham said.

Lolladue shrugged, hunched his shoulders and moved off.

“You’re not fool enough to think I did this?” I asked Luckham. “Are you?”

“We’ll go down to the office and talk about it.”

A tall figure called out from across the road.

“Sheriff!”

Luckham waved the shotgun and I spotted Kirk Hartmann moving toward us. His broad shoulders swung lazily as he lounged through the talkative men, women and children. He had his pipe clamped between his teeth, big hands deep in the slashed chest pockets of his jacket.

“That right, seventeen wounds?” Kirk said. “Not counting the brickbat?” He looked at me and turned his gaze toward Luckham.

“Probably more,” Luckham said. “We counted seventeen times, but when they get him on the table they’ll probably find more. Lolladue thinks so.”

Hartmann looked at me again, unsmiling. “Hello, Al,” he said. He bit down on the stem of his pipe, glanced at Noraine, then shook his head.

“We’re taking Harper down to the office,” Luckham said. “You saw his car parked in there on the mill grounds, too—didn’t you, Kirk?”

Hartmann’s face was impassive.

“Yes,” he said, “I saw it in there.” He puffed away on his pipe, watching me. Then he shook his head again, turned away and moved slowly back across the road.

The whole night went silent. There was an abrupt ceasing of talk and there was only the remote sound of the wind. Gunther and his son stood there, looking at me. I felt alone—trapped. I couldn’t understand Kirk.

Noraine was watching Sam Gunther. Gunther took her arm, turned her, and they walked away. I watched her slim legs scissoring along beside him.

Weyman was watching, too. Then his eyes turned toward his father’s back.

Deputy Cole was seated on a pile of books on the floor under the girly calendar, his face coated with a thin sheen of perspiration. Luckham closed the door. He placed the shotgun on the desk, nodded at Cole.

“What you got there?” Cole said.

“Shotgun. Kid found it by the fence over on the mill grounds.” He patted it with his hand. “Why didn’t you stick around, Cole?”

“What was there to stick around for? You sent me after him.” He looked at me. “I saw Gunther bring him down, so I cut out. I been sitting here.”

“Well, dammit,” Luckham said. “That’s no way to act.”

I heard a high keening sound from somewhere down the valley. The noise increased until it was a whine, strong and high, and I knew it was a speeding car coming from the direction of Riverton.

Luckham paused, taking his beautiful Stetson off. Cole stood up and moved quickly to the window.

“It’s that crazy woman again,” Cole said.

“Now what?” Luckham said.

“She’ll kill somebody yet,” Cole said. “Listen to that, will you?’

The noise of a highly revving engine neared, screaming in the night.

“Here she comes!”

There was a vicious splay of brilliant light on the highway. I was beside Cole, peering outside. A flash and roar like an explosion between the few buildings of the village, a blurred white low-flying object burst past in a crazed cutting of wet snow and grit. Directly in front of the sheriff’s office, whoever it was slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car took out and lay down and positively rocketed like a wild jet. The noise of the engine banked a moment into the night, then began to fade.

Cole looked at Luckham.

“Who was that?” I said.

Luckham went over to the desk.

“That was Miss Gunther,” Cole said.

“Lois Gunther?”

“That’s right.”

I wanted to go lie down somewhere and cover my head. And then I remembered Noraine and I felt like hell. For two years I’d been playing the game with Noraine, running away from it, only accepting it, too, when it showed up—and now I felt sick.

Luckham said, “Cole—take our friend here and show him our little jail.”

“You mean—?”

“Just show it to him. I want he should know what it looks like before we begin talking.”

Cole was wearing his black jacket. He took it off and tossed it on the pile of books he’d been sitting on. Then he jerked his head at me.

“Go on along with him,” Luckham said, without looking up.

Cole opened one of the doors at the back of the room. It opened almost directly on bars. There were three cells in there, divided by brick walls. Cole switched on a light. The light was very bright and it showed the cells plainly; gray and immaculate, with dirty-looking blankets on the chained-up bunks. There was an odor of disinfectant.

I turned back into the room and heard Cole switch the lights off and close the door. I was still thinking of that crazy car flashing by with Lois behind the wheel.

Luckham said, “Why did you kill Herb Spash?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

Luckham inspected his hands, palms and backs. Cole went over and sat on the pile of books.

“Why were you talking with him?”

“He had something he wanted to tell me. He’s been tagging me around ever since I came to town. I finally pinned him down.”

“That’s a fact,” Cole said.

“Shut up,” Luckham said. “Tell me about it.”

I didn’t know how much to tell him. I didn’t know where he stood. I wanted to think he was just a bull-headed sheriff, not a bought sheriff.

“He told me something about my father. Anything wrong in that?”

“Not exactly, no. Not if you don’t kill him afterwards. Way I figure it, Herb Spash told you something you didn’t want to hear. Maybe he knows—or knew—something you didn’t want him to know. Maybe old Herb said he was going to tell somebody else. Maybe that’s why you came back here—maybe that’s how Herb had been drinking and not working for so long.”

“You know better than that.”

“How?”

“All right,” I said. “I can account for my time, if that’s what you want.”

Luckham twisted in his chair and eyed Cole. Cole was studying his feet.

“He can account for his time,” Cole said. “Ain’t that something?”

“Yes-
sir!”
Luckham said.

“What side are you on?” I said.

“How you mean, ‘side’? I didn’t know there was any sides. What you talking about?”

“Why didn’t you leave town?” Cole said. “We told you it was the smart thing to do.”

“We did tell him, didn’t we?” Luckham said.

“Are you holding me for anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Damn you!” I said.

Luckham sighed. “Listen,” he said, and there was something new in his voice, something very earnest and quiet. “I know what you think, Harper. But you’re wrong. You think I’m a crooked sheriff, don’t you?”

I said nothing.

“You don’t have to answer. I can see what you’ve been thinking. Well, let me tell you something. I’m the law in this town, and we don’t have any police force patrolling around, no cruisers cruising up and down with two-way radios. And this isn’t the only section I got to take care of. I got an office in Westfield, too. But I’m sticking around here for a good reason.”

“Here we go again.”

“Just take it easy. Pine Springs is a peaceful little farming community. Hell, a sprinkle of houses and a couple stores. It ain’t anything, Harper.”

Cole cleared his throat.

“That’s right,” Luckham went on. “It
looks
like it ain’t anything. For a long time now everything’s been like a picnic in Pine Springs. Cheerful—everybody happy, contented—everybody pulling themselves out of a mess they been in. I didn’t know much about that mess. But I found out. Your father caused it—and that’s none of yours, but he was still your father and these people are peculiar. You shouldn’t have come back here. But you
did
come back. You’re pigheaded and you’re a fool.”

I kept on watching him.

“He sure is pigheaded,” Cole said.

“I would’ve come back, too,” Luckham said. “I’d of had to come back. But that’s no excuse and I’d be just as much of a fool. See?”

“You tell him, Tom,” Cole said.

Luckham turned in the chair and looked at the deputy. Cole kept his gaze down. Luckham turned back to me.

“So because I don’t go ramming out there, tossing folks in jail, and generally raising Cain, you think I’m a crooked sheriff. Just because I don’t seem to give a damn that somebody wrecked your house and killed a hound-dog.”

“Then, why—?”

“Why, why, why! Why what?” He smashed his hands across his face and blinked at me. “Listen here—somebody in this town had an investigator on your tail, Harper. Word come in, too, that you was a criminal—that you went around robbing banks—that you were hiding out here, hiding from the big law. That you were going to start a house, with that Miss Temple as the starting point. And the news come from the same place where Miss Temple spends most of her time right now. Hold on, now—it wasn’t the truth. You weren’t
anything
, out there. You were a bum, mostly—you got mixed up in something in New York and it made the papers, but I’m inclined to think it was a mistake. Right?”