Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

Horne took a deep breath and then another one. Since his last heart attack he’s been practicing controlled breathing. I probably should have put it to him more roundabout, but Anson’s like a mule. You’ve got to hit him with a two-by-four to get his attention.

“All right,” he growled. “Have your say. I know I couldn’t stop you anyhow.”

“You’re right about one thing, Torvilson is the murderer, but not the way you think. He didn’t pull the trigger. How about you and Hadley taking Torvilson out for a little ride. Meet me at Hardscrabble about four this afternoon.”

He didn’t say he would, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t. And sure enough, when four o’clock rolled around, the three of them were there at the head of the trail.

The heat of the day was still clinging to the stones, and the scent of pine sap from the few remaining trees perfumed the air. It wasn’t till we reached the head of the valley that you could smell the lingering acrid scent of ash. Horne had been pretty patient with me up until now, but I could tell he was getting set to dig in his heels.

I stopped and said, “Okay, gentlemen, what do you see?” The shadows were lengthening and the crosses caught the sun in golden relief.

Red was quiet and Horne looked at me like I was mad, but Torvilson took a deep breath and said, “My son’s cross is high up the rim of the valley,” just like nobody else had died there.

“Six crosses,” I answered, “and your son’s the farthest one out. Right?”

“He was a fast runner. He was the star of his high-school track team.”

“And how about your boy, Red?” I asked softly.

“Don’t have a boy, never did,” he answered.

“But your wife did. And you raised him as your own, up in Idaho, didn’t you.”

Red lit out, not back toward the road, but up the valley, mimicking the six who had died there. I knew his heart was pounding and his muscles were straining, but there was no fire behind him, only Anson Horne.

The Chief of Police did nothing.

“Aren’t you going to shoot him?” Torvilson demanded.

“You’re a bloodthirsty son of a gun, aren’t you?” Anson retorted. I noticed he was taking deep breaths. “You kept pouring acid on him every day.” He turned to me. “How’d you find out?”

“I met Hadley here yesterday. I thought he was following me on your orders. In fact, he’d been laying flowers at his boy’s cross. He made a bad mistake telling me that cross marked where Torvilson’s boy had gone down. Still, it’s no crime not wanting someone else knowing your business. It was when Benson got killed instead of Ferguson that I knew he had to be guilty.”

“Look here,” Anson interjected. “I knew about the kid when Red brought his family down from Idaho. He didn’t like to talk about it, just wanted to make a fresh start. Get the past behind him. He was doing just fine until you started coming around.” He poked Torvilson in the chest.

“All I wanted was justice,” Torvilson retorted.

“And you got it, kind of. Benson let slip that he’d put a fire out the day before the big blowup. He’d never reported it. It must have started to dawn on him that we’d noticed the slip. He tried to muddy the waters, but it was already too late. Hadley was faster than me in figuring out that Benson had committed two sins. He hadn’t reported the fire, and he’d done a sloppy job of putting it out. It must have smoldered all night. By morning it had flared up again and closed off the road.”

Torvilson interrupted, “He’s getting away.”

Anson looked at him with cold blue eyes. “We’re on federal territory. I have no jurisdiction here.”

We looked up the valley at Hadley struggling up the rim of the valley. He’d reached the cross that marked the spot where the fastest kid had lost the race. He struggled on by without stopping, but I knew that safety was beyond his reach.

© 1996 by Barbara Owens

A former Edgar Award winner, and an EQMM Department of First Stories author, Barbara Owens has been featured regularly in EQMM since 1978. The Skovich and Hacker detecting team, however, is of relatively recent origin. The idea for the forty-something Skovich and his young partner Hacker came to Ms. Owens in 1992 and hasn’t let go of her since.

They looked out of place in a busy squad room accustomed to society’s dregs — four elderly men aligned on a bench, plainly but neatly dressed. Becker came back from the front desk, said they’d informed him they wanted to speak to a detective and that it was none of his business what it was about.

Hank Skovich cupped his swollen jaw and eyed them sourly. “Looks like a senility lineup. Give them to somebody else.”

“Nobody else available right now,” Becker responded cheerfully. “They’re all yours.”

Terry Hacker was studying the old men with amused interest. “I think I’ve seen them before. Aren’t they the old guys who stake out one of those benches in the park down the street?”

“I don’t know,” Skovich sighed. “Okay, Becker, send them back.”

They came in single file. Skovich and Hacker pulled four side chairs into a semicircle around their facing desks and the old men sat, straight and smiling. Hacker made the introductions. One of the four, a balding gentleman with a sharp chin, nodded and cleared his throat.

“We’ll hold onto our names, if it’s all the same to you, until we see how you boys take to what we’ve got to say,” he announced in a whiskey voice. “Then if you don’t see things our way, we’re outta here and nobody’s the worse for it, know what I mean?”

Skovich shifted irritably. “Sir, if you have information regarding a crime, that’s what we’re here for. Let’s don’t waste time.”

The old man’s eyes were blue and faded, but there was still a sparkle there. He gave Skovich a sympathetic grin.

“Got a bad toothache, haven’t you, sonny? Looks like you feel rotten. Well, be glad you still got your own. Just have it dug out, did you?”

Skovich winced at the thought, but found himself muttering, “Wisdom tooth. Going to come out as soon as the infection lets go.”

The old man asked and his three friends nodded with understanding. Skovich suddenly felt a little more kindly. “So what can we do for you?”

The old man leaned forward eagerly, grasping the desk’s edge with both hands. “We want to let you know about a crime. Hasn’t happened yet but it’s gonna. The bank on Central, just around the corner, is gonna be robbed.”

“You mean Citizens Bank?” Hacker asked.

“That’s the one. Gonna get hit.”

Skovich cocked an eyebrow. Another harmless crank. “When’s this going to happen?” he asked. “And how is it that you know about it?”

“Gonna be Thursday,” the old man answered. “Or Friday. It depends.”

Suddenly another voice — the old duffer with the polka-dot tie. “P.T., I told you I can’t do it Thursday,” he protested in a mushy stage whisper. “My daughter’s coming up that day.”

The sharp-chinned man stiffened, whipping toward him. “Shut up, Marsh! Now look what you’ve done. This is all for you, you damn fool!”

The detectives exchanged looks. The corner of Hacker’s mouth twitched. “You men are going to rob the bank?”

P.T. threw up his hands and slumped back in his chair. “Well, you screwed it up, Marsh, just like I knew you would. Didn’t I say let me do the talking?” He exhaled a long sigh. “Okay, officers, here’s the story. I’m P.T., the bigmouth is Marsh, that’s John on the end, and this fat one here is Sid.”