Dan Simmons - A Winter Haunting

“Yeah,” he said.

“No problems?”

“No problems,” said Dale. “Dr. Williams told me what you did about Dr. Hall’s accident and agreed to phone my prescription into the Oak Hill pharmacy. Actually, I’m pretty sure that I still have some medication left back at the farmhouse.”

“Good,” said McKown. The sheriff slipped into the only other chair and laid a manila folder on the table. There was a paperback book under the folder, but Dale could not see the title. “Are you willing to talk to me for a minute?” asked the sheriff.

“Do I have a choice?” Dale was very tired.

“Sure you do. You can even call a lawyer if you want.”

“Am I under arrest or suspicion for something other than being crazy?”

McKown smiled tightly. “Professor Stewart, I just wanted to ask your help on a little problem we have.”

“Go ahead.”

The sheriff removed five snapshot-sized glossy photos from the folder and set them out in front of Dale as if inviting him to play solitaire. “You know these boys, Professor?”

Dale sighed. “I don’t know them, but I’ve seen them. I recognize this kid as Sandy Whittaker’s nephew, Derek.” He tapped the photograph of the youngest boy.

“You want to know the names of the others?”

“Not especially,” said Dale.

“This one you should know about,” said McKown, sliding the photograph of the oldest skinhead out by itself on the tabletop. “His name is Lester Bonheur. Born in Peoria. He’s twenty-six. Dishonorable discharge from the army, six priors including felonious menacing, assault with a deadly weapon, and arson. Only convicted once for auto theft, served just eleven months. He discovered Hitler about four years ago the way most folks discover Jesus. These other punks are just. . . punks. Bonheur is dangerous.”

Dale said nothing.

“Where was the last place you saw these five men?” McKown’s pale blue eyes were too intense for a poker player.

“I don’t. . .” began Dale.

Tell him the truth. Tell him the whole truth.

The sheriff’s stare grew even more intense as Dale’s silence stretched.

“I don’t know what the place is called,” continued Dale, completely changing what he was going to say, “but it’s that muddy old quarry area a mile or so east of Calvary Cemetery. When we were kids, we called the little hills there Billy Goat Mountains.”

McKown grinned. “That’s what my uncle Bobby always called the old Seaton Quarry.” The grin disappeared. “What were you doing there with these troublemakers, Professor?”

“I wasn’t doing anything with them. The five of them were in two pickup trucks, chasing me. I was in my Land Cruiser.”

“Why were they chasing you?”

“Ask them,” said Dale.

The sheriff’s stare did not grow any friendlier.

Dale opened his hands above the tabletop. “Look, I don’t even know who these skinheads are except for him. . .” He tapped the photo of the youngest boy again. “Sandy Whittaker told me that her nephew was a member of this local neo-Nazi group. They threatened me when I first got here in October. Then the other day—“

The day before Michelle Staffney showed up on Christmas Eve.

“The day before Christmas Eve they jumped me at the KWIK’N’EZ. You can ask the fat girl who works there. I got in my Land Cruiser and drove away. They chased me in their pickup trucks. I took the back way from Jubilee College Road and lost them at the muddy old quarry area.”

“‘Back way’ is right,” said the sheriff. “That’s all private land. Why would you drive across country like that with these bad boys after you?”

Dale shrugged. “I remembered Gypsy Lane. It’s an old overgrown road that we used to. . .”

“I know,” interrupted McKown. “My uncle Bobby talked about it. What happened out there?”

“Nothing,” said Dale. “My truck got through the mud. Theirs didn’t. I drove on back to the McBride farm.”

“Were the boys all alive when you left them?” McKown asked softly.

Dale’s jaw almost dropped. “ Of course they were alive. Just muddy. Aren’t they alive now? I mean. . .”

McKown swept the photos back into the folder. “We don’t know where they are, Professor Stewart. A farmer found their pickup trucks out there in the mud yesterday afternoon. One of the pickups got turned on its side. . .”

“Yes,” said Dale. “I saw that. The green Ford followed me up and over a muddy hill there and tipped over at the bottom. But both boys—both men —got out of it. No one was hurt.”

“You sure of that, Professor?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I saw them hopping around and cursing at me. Besides, the chase—even the truck tipping over—all happened in extreme slow motion. No one was going fast enough to get hurt.”

“Why do you think they were chasing you?”

Dale held back his anger at being interrogated. “Sandy Whittaker said that Derek and his pals had read on the Internet some essays I wrote about right-wing groups in Montana,” he said slowly. “The skinheads called me names both times they encountered me—‘Jew lover,’ that sort of thing—so I presume that’s why they wanted to hurt me.”

“Do you think they would have hurt you that day, Professor?”

“I think they would have killed me that day, Sheriff McKown. If they’d caught me.”

“Did you want to hurt them?”

Dale returned the sheriff’s hard gaze with a hard look of his own. “I would have happily killed them that day, Sheriff McKown. But I didn’t. If you’ve been out there you must know that. They must have walked out of that muddy mess and left tracks.”

“They did,” said McKown. “But we lost their tracks up at the cemetery.”

Dale almost laughed. “You think I jumped them up at the cemetery? Killed all of them? Hid their bodies somewhere? Just me against five skinheads less than half my age?”

McKown smiled again. “You had a weapon.”

“The Savage over-and-under?” said Dale, literally not believing this conversation. “I didn’t have it with me.”

McKown nodded, but not reassuringly.

“And it’s a single-shot,” Dale said with some heat. “You think I went home and got the over-and-under, went back to the cemetery, and shot them all? You think they’d just stand around there and wait to be shot while I reloaded?”

McKown said nothing.

“And then why would I call you about the dogs and Michelle. . . about this delusion of mine the next day?” Dale went on, losing the heat of anger and almost faltering. “To throw you off the trail of the skinhead murders?”

“Doesn’t sound very likely, does it?” McKown said agreeably.

“Not something a sane person would do.” Dale’s voice sounded bleak even to himself.

“No,” said McKown.

“Are you going to arrest me now, Sheriff?”

“No, Professor Stewart, I’m going to drive you back to the McBride place and let you get on with your day. We can stop over at the pharmacy on the way so you can get your prescription. And I will ask you to stay around the area here until we get some of this confusion cleared up.”

Dale could only nod.

“Oh, there is one other thing.”

Dale waited. He remembered that Peter Falk as Columbo always said that right before trapping the suspect into confession.

“Would you be so kind as to sign this for me?” McKown moved the folder and slid a copy of Massacre Moon: A Jim Bridger Mountain Man Novel across the scuffed tabletop. The sheriff unbuttoned his shirt pocket to retrieve a ballpoint pen. “It’d be a real treat if you could sign it ‘To Bill, Bobby’s Nephew.’ We’re both real big fans.”

It was only early afternoon when Dale got home. The sheriff touched the brim of his Stetson and drove off down the lane without coming in. The house was cold. In the study, the ThinkPad was open and turned on.