Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

"Tom, you've known Sam since he was bom. You think he's capable of killing somebody?"

"I don't, no. But I'm not the only one going to be asking. We've already had more'n our share of trouble in Cleary-those deaths last year, a couple of other overdoses. The state police're going to be handling this one. And they're going to want to talk to Sam and check out his gun. Run some ballistics."

"What that'll prove is that he's not the one." But even as she said these words a terrible doubt was forming. No, her son was incapable of killing anyone.

Yet she remembered his face today-when he was shooting with Pellam. It looked so determined. So adult. Scary, at times.

"Can I talk to him?"

"He's asleep."

Tom smiled, looked past her. "Doesn't seem to be."

Sam was standing in the hallway, in his pajamas, staring at the sheriff uneasily.

"I heard a noise, I got scared."

"Hi, Sam. How you doing?"

"Hi, Sheriff."

"You feeling better?"

"Yessir, I am."

"You must've heard me. Sorry I woke you up."

"I wasn't asleep. I heard you come in. This was a different noise. Outside my window."

Meg was looking at his round, sleepy face. She thought: No, he'd never kill anyone. Yet… His eyes seemed so cold. He seemed so different. She struggled to smile. "Honey, it's probably that owl. Remember."

"Wasn't the owl."

Meg was thinking: Where is that.22? But, no, he couldn't have done it.

Tom stood. "How 'bout I take a look?"

"I guess," Sam said.

"Tom-" Meg began.

In a whisper the sheriff said, "Okay, Meg, tell you what. I'll come by tomorrow. You and Keith'll be here and you can have a lawyer too, you want. Okay?"

She nodded.

Tom put his hand on the boy's shoulder and they started up the stairs. "Now let's check out that noise."

"I'll be there in a minute to tuck you in," Meg called.

Where was that gun? She had to find it.

She was halfway to the back porch when the gunshot, from upstairs, shook the house.

A scream burst from her lips. She ran to the stairs and leapt out of the way just as Tom stumbled down them, a terrible wound in his chest.

"I…" He glanced at her with unfocused eyes, crawled toward the front door. He got three or four feet. Then dropped to the floor, lay still. Blood soaked the carpet.

"Jesus… Sam!" She started up the stairs again.

For a terrible moment she believed that her son had done it all-killed Ned and then lured the sheriff up to the second floor to kill him. And felt too that it was all her fault-for her infidelity, for her not being grateful for the wonderful life Keith had given her.

But then the boy appeared on the stairs, running in panic, tears streaming down his face.

"There was a man! He hurt Sheriff Tom. He shot him!"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He was at the window. I'm scared…"

Then she heard the noise.

Coming from the basement, the sound reminded her of the time she'd pulled apart an old lettuce crate for the wood, using a claw hammer to pry the nails. The loud squeal from the rusty friction.

Then a snap and the tinkle of glass on stone.

The basement window.

"Mommy! It's him. He's there. He's in the-"

"Shhh."

Meg ran to the basement door. She locked a small brass latch and grabbed the telephone. The line was dead. She tapped the button.

Silence.

She glanced at Tom but the pistol was no longer in his holster. He must have dropped it somewhere or the intruder had stolen it.

"Sam, where are those guns you and Mr Pellam were shooting?"

"I don't-"

"Sam, it's okay, honey. It's going to be fine. Where are the guns?"

He gasped in fear. "I put them in the basement. We were going to clean them. He said he didn't want me to by myself."

"All right, baby."

She led him to the first-floor guest room, which was windowless. She put him inside. "You lock the door when I close it. And don't open it for anybody but Daddy or me."

"I'm scared."

Hugging him hard. So hard it seemed that she'd never be able to let go. "You'll be all right. I promise."

She closed the door and heard it lock.

Meg sprinted into the den, tore open the gun cabinet door. The carbine, smelling of oil and sulfur, was in her hand. The hundred-year-old Springfield (breechloader, not muzzleloader… Oh, Pellam where are you?). The saddle ring jingled as she blew dust off the brown metal barrel.

She found a dozen of the long, heavy shells, put one in the chamber and the rest in her sweater pocket. She closed the breech with a snap and ran into the hall.

On the first floor she checked the front and back doors. They were locked. The windows on the ground floor? She usually kept them locked but had she aired the house recently? She couldn't remember and she wasn't going to check now.

She paused, heard delicate scraping sounds. Metal and wood being adjusted. She walked to the kitchen. Slow, determined. Okay, asshole, she thought. With both hands pulled the hammer to half-cock.

Footsteps were coming up the stairs.

Meg clicked out the kitchen light. She took a deep breath, reached forward, undid the latch and swung the door open wide. She stepped back so fast she almost tripped.

The man was three-quarters up the stairs. She couldn't see his face. He stopped. There was a laugh of surprise. He held a flashlight in his hand. His high, playful voice-vaguely familiar-said, "Meter reader."

Meg said, "I've got a gun. One more step and you're dead."

The light beam started to sweep toward her.

"Shine that light in my eyes and you're dead."

"Risky place, this house."

"What do you want?" She tried to keep her voice from quivering.

"Just passing Go. Looking for my two hundred. But seriously, folks… Tell you what, just let me wander out and I won't report you."

"I want you to lie facedown on the floor."

He laughed. "Uh, nothing personal but it's not real clean. And there might be spiders. I don't like spiders."

"Now!" With one thumb she managed to put the gun on full cock. The click reverberated through the kitchen.

He took a step down the stairs. He was debating. Then he said, "Don't think so. Thanks for the offer but I believe what I'll do is leave. Keep the jewelry, the silver. Wasn't my pattern anyway. Hey, just want to say…"

She held the gun up to her shoulder, started to squeeze the trigger.

He took another two slow steps into the darkness. "… dinner smells great, lady. Sorry I couldn't stay. Maybe some other time."

Now! Do it!

Her finger was frozen on the trigger. Shoot, shoot, shoot…

The man disappeared.

"Shit."

She slammed the door, slipped the latch, and heard him running through the basement. She sprinted to the front of the house. She peered out through the lace curtains beside the door. She couldn't see anyone.

Hell, hell, hell. Where is he? Where'd he go?

Pellam, she thought, please come home…

Keith…

She started toward Sam's room.

Which is when the other man stepped into the hall from the living room and got his arm around her chest, saying in the same sort of sick voice that his partner had been speaking in, "Whoa my! Big gun for a little girl."

My God, she recognized him! It was one of the twins. The ones who owned that disgusting junkyard outside of town. Billy, or Bobby, had his hand over her face and groping for the stock of the gun, trying to pull it out of her strong, desperate grip.

She felt painful pressure on her breast as he fondled her with his other hand. "Hmmmm," he said with approval. She smelled his cheap musky aftershave and coal tar.

He was very strong but so was she. Neither could wrest the gun from the other's grip.

So she pointed the gun into the kitchen and pulled the trigger.