you got nothing but a blank screen. But he did know he didn’t want to call Dave Newsome. Not yet. He was walking away from the telephone, headed toward no place in particular, when it rang.
It was Shooter.
‘Go to where we met the other day,’ Shooter said. ‘Walk down the path a little way. You impress me as a man who thinks the way old folks chew their food, Mr Rainey, but I’m willing to give you all the time you need. I’ll call back late this afternoon. Anybody you call between now and then is your responsibility.’
‘What did you do?’ he asked again. This time his voice was robbed of all force, little more than a whisper.
‘What in the world did you do?’
But there was only a dead line.
35
He walked up to the place where the path and the road came together, the place where he had been talking to Shooter when Tom Greenleaf had had the misfortune to see them. For some reason he didn’t like the idea of driving the Buick. The bushes on either side of the path were beaten down and skinned-looking, making a rough path. He walked jerkily down this path, knowing what he would find in the first good-sized copse of trees he came to … and he did find it. It was Tom Greenleafs Scout. Both men were inside.
Greg Carstairs was sitting behind the wheel with his head thrown back and a screwdriver – a Phillips, this time – buried up to the hilt in his forehead, above his right eye. The screwdriver had come from a cupboard in the pantry of Mort’s house. The red plastic handle was badly chipped and impossible not to recognize.
Tom Greenleaf was in the back seat with a hatchet planted in the top of his head. His eyes were open. Dried brains had trickled down around his ears. Written along the hatchet’s ash handle in faded but still legible red letters was one word: RAINEY. It had come from the toolshed.
Mort stood silently. A chickadee called. A woodpecker used a hollow tree to send Morse code. A freshening breeze was producing whitecaps on the lake; the water was a dark cobalt today, and the whitecaps made a pretty contrast.
There was a rustling sound behind him. Mort wheeled around so fast he almost fell – would have fallen, if he’d not had the Scout to lean against. It wasn’t Shooter. It was a squirrel. It looked down at him with bright hate from where it was frozen halfway up the trunk of a maple which blazed with red fall fire. Mort waited for his galloping heart to slow. He waited for the squirrel to dash up the tree. His heart did; the squirrel did not.
‘He killed them both,’ he said at last, speaking to the squirrel. ‘He went to Tom’s in my Buick. Then he went to Greg’s in Tom’s Scout, with Tom driving. He killed Greg. Then he had Tom drive down here, and killed him. He used my tools to do both of them. Then he walked back to Tom’s house … or maybe he jogged. He looks rugged enough to have jogged. Sonny didn’t think Tom sounded like himself, and I know why. By the time Sonny got that call, the sun was getting ready to come up and Tom was already dead. It was Shooter, imitating Tom. And it was probably easy. From the way Sonny had his music cranked this
morning, he’s a little deaf, anyway. Once he was done with Sonny Trotts, he got in my Buick again and drove it back to the house. Greg’s Ranger is still parked in his own driveway, where it’s been all along. And that’s how -‘
The squirrel scurried up the trunk and disappeared into the blazing red leaves.
‘-that’s how it worked,’ Mort finished dully.
Suddenly his legs felt watery. He took two steps back up the path, thought of Tom Greenleafs brains drying on his cheeks, and his legs just gave up. He fell down and the world swam away for awhile.
36
When he came to, Mort rolled over, sat up groggily, and turned his wrist to look at his watch. It said quarter past two, but of course it must have stopped at that time last night; he had found Tom’s Scout at mid-morning, and this couldn’t be afternoon. He had fainted, and, considering the circumstances, that wasn’t surprising. But no one faints for three and a half hours.
The watch’s second hand was making its steady little circle, however.
Must have jogged it when I sat up, that’s all.
But that wasn’t all. The sun had changed position, and would soon be lost behind the clouds which were filling up the sky. The color of the lake had dulled to a listless chrome.
So he had started off fainting, or swooning, and then what? Well, it sounded incredible, but he supposed he must have fallen asleep. The last three days had been nerve-racking, and last night he had been sleepless until three. So call it a combination of mental and physical fatigue. His mind had just pulled the plug. And Shooter! Christ. Shooter said he’d call!
He tried to get to his feet, then fell back with a little oof! sound of mingled pain and surprise as his left leg buckled under him. It was full of pins and needles, all of them crazily dancing. He must have lain on the goddam thing. Why hadn’t he brought the Buick, for Christ’s sake? If Shooter called and Mort wasn’t there to take the call, the man might do anything.
He lunged to his feet again, and this time made it all the way up. But when he tried to stride on the left leg, it refused his weight and spilled him forward again. He almost hit his head on the side of the truck going down and was suddenly looking at himself in one of the hubcaps of the Scout. The convex surface made his face look like a grotesque funhouse mask. At least he had left the goddamned hat back at the house; if he had seen that on his head, Mort thought he would have screamed. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself.
All at once he remembered there were two dead men in the Scout. They were sitting above him, getting stiff, and there were tools sticking out of their heads.
He crawled out of the Scout’s shadow, dragged his left leg across his right with his hands, and began to pound at it with his fists, like a man trying to tenderize a cheap cut of meat.
Stop it! a small voice cried – it was the last kernel of rationality at his command, a little sane light in what felt like a vast bank of black thunderheads between his ears. Stop it! He said he’d call late in the afternoon, and it’s only quarter past two! Plenty of time! Plenty of time!
But what if he called early? Or what if ‘late afternoon’ started after two o’clock in the deep-dish, crackerbarrel South?
Keep beating on your leg like that and you’ll wind up with a charley horse. Then you can see how you like trying to crawl back in time to take his call.
That did the trick. He was able to make himself stop. This time he got up more cautiously and just stood for a moment (he was careful to keep his back to Tom’s Scout – he did not want to look inside again) before trying to walk. He found that the pins and needles were subsiding. He walked with a pronounced limp at first, but his gait began to smooth out after the first dozen strides .
He was almost clear of the bushes Shooter had stripped and beaten down with Tom’s Scout when he heard a car approaching. Mort dropped to his knees without even thinking about it and watched as a rusty old Cadillac swept by. It belonged to Don Bassinger, who owned a place on the far side of the lake. Bassinger, a veteran alcoholic who spent most of his time drinking up what remained of his once-substantial inheritance, often used Lake Drive as a shortcut to what was known as Bassinger Road. Don was about the only year-round resident down here, Mort thought.
After the Caddy was out of sight, Mort got to his feet and hurried the rest of the way up to the road. Now he was glad he hadn’t brought the Buick. He knew Don Bassinger’s Cadillac, and Bassinger knew Mort’s Buick. It was probably too early in the day for Don to be in a blackout, and he might well have remembered seeing Mort’s car, if it had been there, parked not far from the place where, before too much longer, someone was going to make an extremely horrible discovery.
He’s busy tying you to this business, Mort thought as he limped along Lake Drive toward his house. He’s been doing it all along. If anyone saw a car near Tom Greenleafs last night, it will almost certainly turn out to be your Buick. He killed them with your tools