Doug Allyn - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 32, No. 13, Mid-December, 1987

That fall Donna left for the state university she had never intended to attend, while I moved in with Sam’s family until I finished high school. Donna came back once, for my graduation and because that was the year she turned twenty-one and there were papers to be signed at the family attorney’s office. We both left the next day, she in her car and well ahead of me as though she couldn’t wait to get out of town, me in mine following reluctantly because it was difficult to leave Sam, more like a brother now than a friend. We had the summer to settle in before I started my freshman year and she finished up as a senior.

She hadn’t been back since. I tried to visit the graves each year on the anniversary of the fire.

Headlights on, a police car crunched gravel as it slowly rolled toward me.

Sam stepped out, heavy in his chiefs uniform, and held out his hand.

“Good to see you again, George. When you weren’t here by noon, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it this year.”

“Ran into one of those turn-off-your-engine-and-take-a-nap tie-ups on the turnpike.”

We stood for a long moment, old friends clasping hands, grateful another year had passed without the news that we would never meet again.

He tapped my shoulder. “I see you’re a major now. Congratulations. Still flying?”

“When I can. A squadron CO has a great many things to do.”

“How is Donna doing?”

“Still the high powered New York bank executive. Dresses like an ad in the Times, walks fast, and yells at people a great deal.”

“Not married yet?”

“Not yet.” I didn’t say she probably never would be.

“And you?”

“I move around a great deal, Sam.”

He seemed to consider what to say next.

“I have something to show you.”

He brought a heavy object wrapped in newspaper from his car and handed it to me.

I unfolded the paper. Inside was a .45 automatic, crusty with a deep layer of rust. It lay heavy in my hand, recalling more memories.

“Where did you get this?” I tried not to sound too interested.

“Kids never change, I guess. The other day a couple of them found the loose stone of that hiding place in the wall we used to use for those Playboy centerfolds we didn’t want our parents to know about. Anyway, one of the kids poked his hand inside and there it was.”

I weighed it in my hand. “Why would anyone want to hide it?”

“It can’t be proved because it’s rusted solid, but since Brady was found in his car only a few yards down the road with a .45 slug in his chest, I’d say it’s the gun that killed him seventeen years ago. If I didn’t use it and hide it there, and you couldn’t because you left that afternoon for the university, who did?” He paused. “You didn’t even know Brady had been killed until I wrote you about it.”

He said it as though reassuring himself.

I shrugged. “Since kids never change, it’s likely that one found that cavity before we did. What are you going to do with the gun now?”

He rewrapped it carefully. “That’s a problem. It’s dangerous, you know. Probably loaded and there may even be one in the chamber. The shells won’t rust and are probably still live, which makes me worry. Old shells are very unstable. For all I know, a sudden jar could set one off and cause the gun to explode. I think throwing it in the river would be the safest thing for everyone concerned.”

“I’d agree, if it doesn’t get you into trouble. The state police lab might still be able to read the serial numbers, even though they’re not visible, because the molecules in the metal are rearranged when the numbers are stamped.”

“I thought about that but do you realize how long it would take? And even if I did get a number, it might not do much good. This could be a service piece, and a lot of the weapons brought home by servicemen were never registered, which means going through old army records while the gun sits around with the possibility of someone’s being hurt or maimed every time it’s touched.”

“Sam, I think you’re talking yourself out of doing anything at all with the damned thing,” I said slowly.

He leaned on the roof of the car with folded arms and stared across the river at the town. The street lights had come on in the dusk. The white houses were still the same, but there were many in the sections where the mill workers had lived which were boarded up and dark; that way now for twenty years. The fire had not only killed twenty people but had destroyed many more lives.

When he turned, the words came thoughtfully. “You’re a little out of touch, George, because you come back only once a year, so maybe you don’t realize that the town’s hate for Brady never faded. He didn’t rape only your sister that night, he violated all of us. Hell, the people here don’t give a damn who killed him. They just wonder why it took three years. If I held up this gun and told them it was the only clue we ever found to who killed that creep, and then threw it in the river, they’d probably applaud.”

I said nothing.

“Just wanted to straighten out a few things that may have been on your mind, George.”

He was telling me that he knew I’d killed Brady. He was generally more blunt, but I suppose it was a question of ethics. If he didn’t actually say the words, he wasn’t violating his oath of office.

He gently pushed me toward my car. “Let’s get moving. We’re late for dinner and the kids always look forward to your stories about the wild blue yonder.” He chuckled. “Sam Junior spends a great deal of time watching clouds. Do you suppose that means something?”

The odor of burning leaves still lingered as we pulled out of the cemetery.

Memories. Layered like fallen leaves. Those buried deep recalled only when something like the sight of a rusted automatic brushed away the layers on top.

“Whatever happened to Dad’s old .45, Donna?”

“Mother got rid of it. You know how she hated guns.”

Memories, withered and almost dead.

Of my last visit to the hill where Sam and I had spent so much time. Donna had been with me.

“You mean this is where you and Sam used to hide your little treasures? That’s very amusing, George, but let’s leave. Monroe may seem very pretty from up here, but it’s really an ugly little town.”

Of the day I left Monroe.

“You left three hours before I did, Donna. What happened?”

“I had car trouble and had to pull off the turnpike.”

And of the day I’d showed her Sam’s letter.

“I should have killed him myself.”

“You’re too young. You know Dad always said not to touch a gun until you are twenty-one and mature enough to take full responsibility for your actions.”

Happy Birthday, Donna.

When I get back, I’ll send you a cake with twenty-one candles on it.

Even though it will be seventeen years late, it may help to know that I understand.

So would Dad and Roy.

Old Woody’s wife caught what appeared to be Harry Elbow’s other hand on a 4 lb. test line while fishing for trout off the stone retainer wall between the boat ramp and the bait shack. She’d have been almost as surprised if it’d been a fish. She only came down to the river of an evening to rest her feet in the fresh air, and that particular evening she was sitting on the bench with the sun in her eyes trying to explain pacemakers to Mrs. Harley, who was thinking of having one put in Joe Harley, when she felt the tug on her line. Figuring it to be another old shoe, Old Woody’s wife went right on quoting the microwave sign at 7-11 and reeled the thing in without even looking. So it was Mrs. Harley who screamed first.