Scare Tactics (37 page)

“You made a spot,” she said. “I’d better try to clean it up.”

“Let it go. The Major won’t care, for God’s sake.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Where is the Major?”

“I don’t know, but he might come home any minute.” She put out a hand as if to draw him away by the sleeve of his coat. “Bring your glass and—” She broke off, aware that he was staring at the wall opposite the foot of the bed. “What’s that?” he asked.

She showed her teeth in a grimace of distaste.

“I
told
you you didn’t know anything about him.” For a moment it seemed as if she . might cry, but she checked herself. “Come out of here now.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes from the painting.

“That’s Molly,” he said, “the Major’s daughter.”

“Yes ...”

Practice put a hand to his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what they saw. Obviously the picture had been painted not long before Molly’s death. The artist had posed her in a child’s swing, and caught her in full flight, her long hair flowing behind her, an expression of oblivious joy on her face. She was absolutely, literally nude, fixed forever by the artist’s brush in the days between puberty and sexual maturity.

The bedroom itself—wood-paneled, with thick carpeting—was a small museum. There were three glass cases of war trophies, maps, two gun racks, and a good-sized mounted telescope, which was pointed toward the river. The painting in any setting would have been startling, but in that room, with its faded mementos of a vigorous manhood, it was shocking.

Steppie swallowed, reluctantly looking at the painting, her expression squeamish.

“No,” she said, “it isn’t my bed. I’m not allowed in here at all. Only
she
...” Steppie made a motion toward the painting, then averted her eyes. “Oh, Jim, there’s something in the Major’s mind that ...”

“Get out of here,” he said. “Go sit with Chris. I have to make another call, and then I’ll come.”

Captain Liles wasn’t available. Practice requested that Liles be located, gave the address of the Major’s house, and hung up. He glanced once more at the painting, both fascinated and appalled, then joined Steppie in the other bedroom.

He looked down at Chris. There was less strain in the boy’s face, but his skin was still cold to the touch. Practice knew Chris was in shock, but couldn’t tell how bad it was. He wished Lucy were there. What had Chris seen in that prison? Had he seen his friend killed, or only heard his screams as he crouched in the well? For a moment Practice thought of Val St. George, but revulsion took over his thoughts.

Steppie sat dispiritedly in a chair beside the bed and poured herself another drink.

“What happened to him?” she asked without interest. “Did he fall in the creek? It’s not so cold this time of year, why is he ...”

“He’s in shock. Someone tried to kill him.”

“What?”

“Three years ago he was almost killed, but nobody believed then it was anything but an accident. Today the same man tracked Chris and a friend through the old prison. Chris got away. The other boy wasn’t so lucky.”

She stared at him with round, frightened eyes.

“The other boy is ... ?”

Practice nodded. “Dead. Strung up in a burlap sack and run through a dozen times with a sword.”

On the bed Chris moved restlessly, but no sound came from his lips.

Steppie doubled up as if a cramp had hit her, but in a few moments regained control. Practice paced nervously, occasionally stopping in front of the windows. From there he could see the school yard and the long, desolate valley where the old prison lay. And inside ...

“How long have you been living with him?” he said, trying to get his mind off the murder.

“Two months. Maybe more. I’ve lost track. But I don’t stay here all the time. I come when he wants me. Stay two, three days. Then I go.”

“How did you get together in the first place?”

She looked down into her glass, frowning, as if she didn’t want to be questioned, but in some way was eager to tell him everything about her relationship with Major Kinsaker. “He saw me, he wanted me, he sent for me. That’s all.”

“Not quite all. What are you getting this time, Steppie?” Steppie squinted resentfully, then her expression became bland and a little smug.

“Nearly everything he has, when he dies.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Can’t you? What else would he do with his money? There are no more Kinsakers. Someone’s going to have his fortune; it might as well be me.”

Practice was silent, and she turned her head sharply. “Don’t believe it, do you? Listen, Jim. He made out a new will when I came to this house for the first time. I’ve seen it. I know just where it is. Ninety percent of everything he owns is mine as soon as he dies. And Jim”—her voice became a husky, passionate whisper—“he is seventy-one years old. And any day, just any day now ...” Her head dropped again and she stared blankly at the floor.

“What’s going to happen, Steppie?”

Her mouth opened and closed petulantly.

“He’ll die, I hope.”

“He’ll double-cross you somehow, Steppie. Can’t you see that?”

“No, he won’t! He won’t dare!”

“Real easy for you. You come when he calls. Any hundred-dollar-a-day girl could do the same, and it would be a hell of a lot cheaper. What’s going on here, Steppie?”

“Nothing you don’t know.”

“Then why are you so scared? If you’re so certain he’ll die soon and leave you a fortune ...”

“Will you shut up?” she hissed.

“You asked me for help last night.”

“Forget last night.”

“You were serious enough. Are you trying to tell me you’d give up the Major, and the security he’s pledged, for me?” She hit her fist on the arm of the chair several times, her eyes shut.

“Where is that doctor? Why doesn’t he come and get this kid out of here before the Major comes back?” 

“What does the Major want from you, Steppie?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Besides that.”

“Stop it, Jim. I know what you think of me. But believe this, by the time I get out of here I will have earned every nickel I ...” She sat erect and still for half a minute, her expression serious, almost stolid, a distant look in her eye. “You know, Jim, the Major hates Guthrie. Really hates him.”

“I know there’s bad feeling ...”

“If he hates him, then why doesn’t he go ahead and ruin him and get it over with?”

“He doesn’t have anything on Guthrie that would ...” She turned her face toward him, but without really seeing him.

“Oh, yes, he does. And I know what it is.”

Practice waited and then said impatiently, “Go on, Steppie. What are you talking about?”

She shook her head, perplexed.

“The Major could do it anytime he wants; he’s told me so. He could send Guthrie to jail.”

“How?”

Steppie smiled in a queer way.

“For killing Molly Kinsaker.”

Practice stared at her, for the moment stunned; then his mind cleared.

“He couldn’t have, Steppie. Molly died from a fall off her horse.”

“That’s what everyone thinks, because the Major made it look that way. The truth is, Guthrie killed her, or was responsible for her death. Molly Kinsaker was crazy about Guthrie; they were real saddle pals. This was back when the Major and Guthrie were still thick. Well, one weekend the Major had some people up to the farm for a barbecue and all that. There was heavy drinking and Guthrie did his share. About noon on Saturday Molly talked Guthrie into a jeeping expedition down by the river bluffs. The Major wasn’t well and didn’t go, so Guthrie set out with Molly. He was driving and feeling no pain. Nobody knows just how the accident started, but obviously Guthrie was too drunk to control the jeep. Near the river they went over a forty-foot embankment, and Guthrie managed to keep the jeep right side up all the way down. At the bottom he ran out of luck, and they crashed head-on into some trees. Molly went out over the top of the windshield, headfirst into the trunk of a tree, broke her neck and shattered her skull. Guthrie was better off. His arm was hung up in the steering wheel and he stayed inside. You should see it, Jim, it’s awful. Molly lying faceup on the hood of that jeep with her eyes staring at the sky, blood running down her face and all over the hood and right fender, her head twisted way over; and Guthrie trying to walk and staggering drunk with a sick smile on his face ...”

“What do you mean, I should see it? Were you there?” She shook her head. “It’s all on movie film, Jim—the wreck, the tire tracks, the beer cans in the front seat. The Major has the film. He’s made me watch it, several times.” She swallowed hard. “It’s so awful I—but I don’t understand. They covered the whole thing up. They towed the jeep away and buried the oil and gasoline slicks and brought Molly’s horse to the scene, so when the Sheriff and the search party reached the spot all traces of an accident were gone, and it looked as if the horse had thrown Molly against the tree.”

“You said ‘they.’ Who else was involved, Steppie?”

“Dr. Childs. Fletch Childs. You know, the brother of that girl you’re so crazy about. He found the wreck. He was out filming nature studies and heard the crash. I suppose he was so upset he just kept the shutter open and got those movies—but no—” She hesitated, biting her lip. “They weren’t made accidentally. I mean, all the close-ups, the girl’s face and those beer cans in the front seat. He filmed enough evidence to put John Guthrie in jail.” Practice shook his head at that, but she didn’t see. “But they didn’t do it. They covered up. Why?”

She looked searchingly at Practice. “I know one thing. I know why he keeps running those films over and over.”

“So he won’t forget?”

“Because,” she said in little more than a whisper, “because he actually enjoys them.”

With no more sound than the click of the latch the bedroom door opened and Major Starne Kinsaker stood in the doorway. Steppie started, a small cry escaping her, but Practice only returned the Major’s stare in the moments before the old man’s eyes turned in astonishment to the boy lying in the bed.

T
he Major’s reaction to the sight of Chris Guthrie was swift and unexpected. Before Practice could move, Kinsaker had pushed past him and was crouching on the edge of the bed, his arms around Chris, lifting the boy, blankets and all, to his thin, hard chest. He pressed his cheek against Chris’s, one hand cradling the back of Chris’s head.

A series of sounds like dry sobs broke from Major Kinsaker’s throat.

Steppie had half risen from her chair. The sound of door chimes was startlingly loud in the house. Practice motioned to Steppie and she left the bedroom, her eyes a little feverish and still frightened. Practice crossed to the bed and put his hand on the Major’s shoulder.

“What is it?” the Major said softly, still clutching the boy. “What’s the matter with him?”

Practice noticed that the Major was wearing gray wool slacks and house slippers instead of his customary riding boots and habit, and because of the change seemed less rigid and formidable.

“Something very bad has happened, Major,” Practice said. “Another boy, a friend of Chris’s, has been killed—murdered. I think Chris would have been killed, too, but he managed to get away. I found him down in the old prison, hiding in the well of the aqueduct. He was half frozen, scared witless. I brought him to the nearest shelter I could find.”

“It’s all right,” the Major said, and slowly lowered the boy to the bed, rearranging the covers around him, his eyes never leaving Chris’s face. There were muffled voices on the stairs, as Steppie returned with whoever had been at the door.

“Who was after him?” the Major asked. “Did he tell you?”

“Chris hasn’t been conscious. I hope he saw what happened. But I don’t need to hear it from him to know.”

The Major turned his head slowly, his hawk-yellow eyes burning.

“Were you there? Did you see the person?”

“Not well enough to identify him. I’d like to be able to tell you more, Major. But I’ll have to discuss the murder with Captain Liles first. He should arrive here soon.”

The doctor entered, followed by Steppie. He introduced himself and went briskly to the bed, a man with a brigadier’s mustache and dewlaps. The Major walked stiffly away from the bed, past Steppie.

“Make some coffee,” he said to her in a tone of cold command, and signaled Practice with his eyes. He looked at the door to his bedroom, hesitated, then walked across the room to lock the door with a key from his pocket. Practice watched him, then turned and followed Steppie out. The Major joined them in the hall. They both looked at Steppie as she went unsteadily down the stairs, a hand on the railing.

“I’m sorry she was here when you came,” the Major murmured. “Awkward. My chauffeur has the day off, but I’ll send her home by cab.”

“We haven’t been married for quite a while,” Practice said.

“I’m fond of Steppie. But I suppose she told you.”

“We’ve never discussed you, Major,” Practice said, and knew as soon as he had spoken that the Major didn’t believe him. He wondered how long Kinsaker had been in the house before making his presence known, and what he had overheard outside the bedroom door.