Yellow Dog Contract (16 page)

The other man, the one in the red ski mask, glanced our way almost casually and then slowly raised his pistol with both hands. He took his time. He shot Sally Raines twice in the back and once in the head as she ran down the sidewalk. The first bullet struck her in the small of the back and her arms went out and up toward the sky as though there was something up there that she wanted to touch. The second shot slammed into her left shoulder and spun her around in a curiously graceful motion, almost like a pirouette. The third shot went into her face, just below her left eye, and she may have been dead by the time she crumpled to the ground although they say that it takes longer than that to die.

The man who had shot Sally Raines looked at Murfin and me. Then he moved over and touched the other man on the shoulder. The other man nodded and started backing toward the house, still pointing his gun at me. The two men turned and disappeared through the screen door, letting it slam behind them.

I didn't move for a while. Neither did Murfin. The man on the porch slowly raised his beer can to his mouth. Another screen door slammed. It seemed to come from the rear of the house. A moment or two later we heard a car engine start. And then we heard a car drive off.

They started coming out of their houses then. They came singly and in groups of two or three to stare down at the dead young woman who lay awkwardly on the sidewalk. At first they murmured about it and then their voices rose as they started telling each other what had happened. One of them, a woman of about fifty, started to sob.

I turned to Murfin. “I've got to get to a phone,” I said.

He nodded. “That was her?”

“Yes,” I said. “That was Sally Raines.”

I started toward the porch where the man with the beer can still stood. “You got a phone?” I said.

“That mother almost shot you,” he said. “When you went and threw that bottle he almost shot you.”

“You got a phone?” I said again.

“Yeah, I got a phone.” He took another swallow of his beer and started into the house. Murfin and I followed. “You must be fuckin' crazy, man, throwin' somethin' at a man with a gun,” the man with the beer said over his shoulder, then stopped, turned, and looked at me. “Pretty good throw though.”

He led us into the house and we turned right into a living room where a large color-console television set played silently to some unseen audience.

“Phone's over there,” he said.

I picked up the phone and made my first call. When Audrey answered I said, “I've got some bad news. Some very bad news. Sally's been shot. She's dead.”

There was a silence and then she whispered, “Oh-mygodno.”

“There's nothing you can do for her.”

“When did it happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, shit, it's my fault. It's all my goddamn fault.”

“Audrey!” I said, barking her name.

“Yes,” she said, her voice still almost a whisper.

“It's not your fault. It's not your fault at all. Listen, I want you to do something and I want you to do it right now.”

“What?”

“I want you to throw some clothes together for you and the kids and I want you to get in your car and drive out to the farm. Ruth'll be there.”

“Ruth'll be there?” The shock of Sally Raines's death must have hit then because her voice had gone dull and childlike, although it sounded pleased about Ruth.

“She'll be expecting you and the kids,” I said.

“You want us to go to the farm?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be there?”

“I'll be there later.”

“You want us to go now?”

“That's right.”

“And Ruth'll be there.”

There was another silence and then she said in a low, tortured voice, “Oh, God, Harvey, why'd it all have to happen?”

“We'll talk about it later. At the farm.”

“At the farm,” she said and then hung up without saying good-bye.

I put the phone down and looked around the room. The black man was staring at his television set. “I don't much watch it, y'know. I just kinda like the colors all moving around. I reckon it's sorta like a fireplace.”

“Where'd the other guy go?” I said.

“The other guy? He went upstairs. He went upstairs because he wanted to pee and because he wanted to look at her room. Shit, I don't wanta look at her room, do you?”

“No,” I said, picked up the phone and made a collect call to Ruth. When she answered I told her about Sally Raines and that Audrey and the children would be coming out to stay for a while.

“I'm terribly sorry about Sally,” Ruth said. “She and Audrey were so close. Is Audrey all right?”

“She might need a little comforting.”

“Of course.” There was a pause and then Ruth said, “Did you see it happen?”

“Yes. Murfin and I saw it. We're going to have to talk to the police.”

“Harvey?”

“Yes.”

“Don't take any more chances. It's not worth it.”

“No,” I said, “it really isn't.”

After we said good-bye I made my third call. It was to my lawyer, Earl Inch. When he came on I said, “I think I'm in even more trouble than I thought I was.”

“Excellent,” he said and when I told him about it and where I was he said he would be right over. “Have you called the cops?” he asked.

I could hear a siren somewhere. It seemed to be coming closer. “No,” I said. “Somebody else did.”

After talking to Inch I turned from the phone just as Murfin came into the room. The white-haired black had got himself another can of beer and was drinking it as he stood staring reflectively into the silent color of the television set that served as his surrogate fireplace. Murfin looked at the man, then at me, and jerked his head toward the door, indicating that he wanted us to go outside. I nodded, thanked the man for the use of his phone, and went out onto the porch with Murfin.

“Jesus, I had to piss,” he said.

“What was her room like?”

He shook his head. “Her clothes were lying all over everything. Looked like they tore 'em off her. What does Chad mean?”

“How do you spell it?”

He spelled it for me.

“It's the name of a country in Africa. It also could be a man's name, usually his first name, although it's not too common. You know anybody named Chad?”

“No.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“There was a little old beat-up desk in her room. There were a couple of pieces of paper on it, all wadded up. There wasn't anything on one of them. But on the other somebody'd written down Chad. It looked like a girl's writing.”

“Jesus,” I said, “maybe it's a clue.”

“Yeah,” Murfin said happily. “Maybe it is.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

D
ETECTIVE
A
ARON
O
XLEY
of the Metropolitan Police Department's homicide squad couldn't think of anything to charge me with except a felony that could, he said, get me five to ten years in Lorton. The felony that Detective Oxley had in mind was my failure to report a felony. The felony that I had failed to report was Max Quane's murder, but my lawyer, Earl Inch, pooh-poohed that as only a $100-an-hour lawyer can; with magnificent derision and chilling disdain. Detective Oxley took it well enough because he really didn't seem too interested in charging me with anything anyhow. What he was really interested in was why I had thrown the empty pint bottle of Old Overholt. And Murfin. He was interested in Murfin, too.

“These two guys with ski masks,” Oxley said. “They both had guns, right?”

“Right.”

“And one of the guys—”

“The one in the blue mask,” I said.

“Yeah, the blue mask. Well, he goes into what you call the FBI crouch—”

“You know,” I said, “like on television.”

“Yeah,” Oxley said, sighed, and perhaps even shuddered a little. “Like on television. Well, the guy in the blue mask has a gun and the one in the red mask has a gun, but that doesn't bother you any. You pick up an empty pint bottle and pop the guy with the blue mask on the arm with it just as he's about to shoot the Raines woman.”

“Obviously, Mr. Longmire was trying to prevent a cold-blooded murder,” said Earl Inch, earning his $100 an hour. “I think he should be commended.”

“Congratulations,” Oxley said to me. “I think you're wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“Now tell me again why you threw the bottle.”

“I don't know,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea. At the time.”

“You didn't think that, well, maybe these two guys with the guns might get just a little offended? You know, a little pissed off at you and maybe even get it into their heads that they oughta plunk a few shots your way?”

“Mr. Longmire was obviously willing to risk his life in order to save that of another,” Inch said and sounded as if he almost believed it.

“Mr. Inch,” Oxley said. “I know you're here to represent your client and all of us really appreciate your efforts. We really do. Honestly. But when I ask Mr. Longmire here a question I'd appreciate it if you'd just let him answer it and then, if you don't like his answers, well, you can sort of patch them up afterwards and tell me what it was that he really meant to say. Okay?”

Inch smiled. It was a cool, smooth smile that exuded the kind of confidence that comes from having an ego that's in tip-top shape. “We'll see how it works out,” he said, committing himself to nothing.

Detective Oxley sighed again. “Okay, Mr. Longmire, tell me what you really thought about when you picked up that bottle and threw it.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“If I'd thought about anything, I wouldn't have thrown it. If I'd thought that I might get shot, I certainly wouldn't have thrown it.”

“Why didn't you think you'd get shot?” Oxley said, springing his trap if, indeed, that's what it was.

“I didn't think that I would or I wouldn't. I didn't think about anything. I just threw it and when the man in the blue mask pointed his gun at me, I wished that I hadn't.”

Oxley leaned back in his chair staring at me with his icy blue eyes that looked as if they had been lied to a lot, but were finally getting used to it. He and Inch were about the same age, in their early thirties. Oxley wasn't too tall and carried enough weight around to make him seem almost dumpy. Inch, on the other hand, was well over six feet tall, lean, carefully barbered, or more accurately, coiffed, and had the smooth, fluid movements of a trained athlete, perhaps a tennis pro, which was a profession that he had once given serious consideration.

We sat there in silence for a while, Oxley glum and almost brooding, Inch serene and apparently delighted, although with what, I couldn't tell. Oxley ran a hand through his longish thin hair that was the nothing color of old chewing gum, gave his holstered .38 a tug to make it ride more comfortably on his hip, and then took a sheaf of notes from his desk drawer, placed them carefully in front of him, and gave them a significant tap with his forefinger.

“That's quite a story you told us, Mr. Longmire, about how you got yourself involved in the Arch Mix disappearance and your sister and everything.”

“I think I've told you all I know,” I said.

“Yeah, we got that all down on tape,” he said. “These here are some notes that another officer took down from what Mr. Murfin had to tell us. You happen to know what Mr. Murfin used to do before he went with the Vullo Foundation?”

“He was involved in a number of political campaigns.”

“And before that?”

“He worked for a couple of labor unions.”

“And before that.”

“I think he was in the entertainment business.”

“He never was a cop, huh?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Tell me again how you'd describe the two men in the ski masks.”

“Well, they were a little over average height, about average weight, and they moved as if they were in pretty good shape so I'd say that they weren't too old.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Ski masks. A blue one and a red one.”

“Besides that?”

I shook my head. “I really don't remember.”

“Let me read you how Mr. Murfin remembers them,” Oxley said. He started reading from the notes in front of him. “‘Witness said that perpetrator in red ski mask was a male Caucasian, five feet ten or ten and a half, weighing approximately a hundred and sixty-five or a hundred and seventy pounds, wearing long-sleeved blue sport shirt buttoned to throat. Witness further states that person in red ski mask wore prefaded blue jeans with flared bottoms. Shoes, according to witness, were white Converse sneakers with three red slanting stripes. Witness not positive whether socks were black or dark blue. Thinks black. Weapon employed by person in red ski mask, according to witness, was thirty-eight caliber revolver with six-inch barrel. Witness is of opinion that revolver was S and W.'” Oxley looked up at me. “S and W,” he said. “That's Smith and Wesson.”

“I see,” I said.

“It gets better,” Oxley said and went back to his reading. “‘Witness states that perpetrator in blue ski mask was also male Caucasian, six feet tall, possibly six feet and one-half inch, weighing approximately a hundred and fifty or a hundred and fifty-five pounds, wiry build. Person in blue ski mask, according to witness, wore dark green, long-sleeved sport shirt, buttoned to throat, light tan corduroy slacks, flared bottoms, Levi brand.'”

Oxley looked up at me. “You wanta know the reason why he says he knew they were Levi's?”

“Why?”

“Because when the guy turned around Murfin saw that little red tab on the back that all Levi's have.”