Show of Evil

Twenty-Seven

The fog was so cotton-thick as they neared the marshes guarding the river that Stenner was reduced to driving at twenty miles an hour. He leaned forward, eyes squinted, trying to discern the white line down the middle of the country road. He had missed the turnoff to the lodge in the soupy mist and they had to double back, driving slowly along the blacktop road, flicking the lights between high and low so they could see through the earthbound clouds. Eventually they saw the sign, a small wooden square at the intersection of the main road and an unpaved lane that disappeared into the trees. They were running late, four-thirty having come and gone.

RED MARSH LODGE, it said in black letters on a mud-spattered white sign. A thick red arrow below the letters pointed down the dirt road. Even on low beam, the headlights turned the fog into a blinding mirror and they crept through the forest on the winding, rutted road for almost two miles before the rustic main building of the lodge suddenly jumped out at them through the haze.

Quarter to five.

Walt Sunderson, a heavyset Swede with a florid complexion and a thick red moustache that dropped down almost to his jaw, stepped out on the porch of the log cabin. He was dressed in overalls and a thick flannel shirt under a padded Arctic jacket.

'Abe Stenner?' he called out, the word sounding flat and without resonance in the thick grey condensation.

'Yes, sir,' the detective said, getting out of the car.

'Just missed him,' Sunderson said in the melodramatic cadence peculiar to the Swedish. 'Darby hauled outta here ten, fifteen minutes ago. I got your boat ready, though, and a map of the marshes and blinds. Won't take you hardly any time at all to get rigged out. You can unpack when you get back. Don't even have to lock your car.'

'That's right civilized,' St Claire said, shoving a wad of tobacco under his lip with his thumb.

'Got plenty hot coffee, you betcha, ready for you in a thermos. Hope you like it black?'

They both nodded. Although Stenner preferred a pinch or two of sugar in his, they were eager to get started. Stenner and St Claire retrieved two shotguns in black leather cases from the trunk. St Claire was wearing a fur-lined ammo vest, its slots filled with 12-gauge shotgun shells. Stenner stuffed another box of rounds in one of the pockets of his army field jacket while Sunderson got the quart thermos. He led them down a long, narrow floating deck.

'Careful, fellas, can't see a thing in this soup.'

'Is it always this thick?' St Claire asked.

'Not in the daytime.'

The boat, a ten-foot, flat-bottomed skiff with a thirty hp motor riveted to the stern, lolled in the still water, barely distinguishable in the darkness and mist despite the heavy beam of a one hundred-watt floodlight nearby. Sunderson checked the floor of the skiff and, scowling and muttering to himself, went to a small shed at the end of the dock. He came back with a coil of heavy rope looped over his shoulder.

'Could have sworn I put an anchor and chain in your boat last night,' he said. 'I'll hitch up this line for you. There's lots of trees and stumps out there, you won't have any trouble finding something to tie up to.'

'That'll be fine,' Stenner said, clambering aboard behind St Claire, who had taken the stern and tiller. They set off into the windless, oppressive darkness, their faces and jackets dripping with condensation before they had travelled fifty yards.

'Kinda eerie,' St Claire said, following the beam of a small headlight mounted on the bow.

'Ah, "death, to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face",' Stenner said softly.

'Didn't know you were a poet, Abel,' St Claire chuckled.

'I'm not. Robert Browning was.'

They fell silent and the boat moved slowly up the narrow creek, the motor gurgling behind them. Stenner held a small map trying to figure out where they were. Twenty minutes later Stenner could see another boat vaguely through the damp, shifting, strands of mist. It was tied to a fallen tree.

'Two of them,' Stenner whispered as they approached the blind.

The two hunters were dressed in camouflage suits and had thrown their life jackets into the stern of the boat. Neither one was Darby. Rushes swished along the sides of the skiff as St Claire guided it towards the blind. One of the men, who was tall and dissipated-looking, was taking a long pull from a gallon jug, holding it high in the crook of his arm and tilting his head back, letting the amber fluid run easily into his mouth. A large black lab with friendly eyes sat on the seat beside the other man and ruffed when he saw them coming through the fog.

'Morning,' the man beside the dog said cheerfully. He was a short fellow, bordering on fat, with a jowly face that became almost cherubic when he smiled.

'Morning,' Stenner said as St Claire reversed the engine and angled in beside their boat. The drinker lowered the jug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Care for a swig?' he asked, offering the bottle. 'Homemade cider. It'll sure take the edge of this chill.'

Stenner said, 'Thanks, anyway.' St Claire reached out and took the jug and, holding up his elbow, expertly dropped it into the angle of his arm and took a long swig. He shuddered as he lowered the container and handed it back.

'Sure right about that,' he said. 'It warms ya right through to yer bones. Thanks.'

'You seen another hunter out here this morning?' Stenner asked.

'You mean Jim Darby. He went on up to six. 'Bout half an hour ago.'

'What's six?' Stenner asked.

'The blinds are numbered. On that map you got there. Old Walt hand-drew the sorry thing. Six is down the creek half a mile or so just before it dumps into the river. This is four here and that one over on the far side of the creek is five.'

'How far away is six?' Stenner asked.

'Half-mile, maybe.'

'Couldn't take more then ten minutes to go up there, could it?'

'More like five, even in the fog.'

'Thanks.'

'You friends of his?' one of them asked.

'Yeah,' St Claire said. 'Thought we'd surprise him. Well, thanks for the help.'

'Sure. Good hunting.'

'Same to you.'

St Claire throttled up and angled the small boat back out into the creek and headed for the six blind. Five minutes later they picked out a small sign on a crooked post with a solitary 6 hand-painted on it. St Claire turned into the tall river grass and cut the engine. The blind was empty.

'Hear that?' St Claire said. Stenner listened keenly and through the fog could hear the low mutter of an engine. Then a dog started barking and a moment later they heard a muffled splash. The engine picked up a little speed and gradually got louder.

'Here he comes,' Stenner whispered.

The sputtering sound of the motor moved slowly towards them and then the skiff emerged through the fog almost directly in front of them. Darby was hunched in the back of the skiff. He seemed preoccupied and did not see them until the dog, a spotted spaniel of some kind, started barking.

'Jesus,' he said with surprise, and cut his motor. He had a 12-gauge shotgun turned down-side-up in his lap, snapping shells into the chamber. St Claire eased a 9mm Clock out of its shoulder holster and casually laid hand and gun on his thigh. As the other boat neared his Darby squinted through the gauzy wisps of fog and suddenly recognized Stenner. He sat up, scowling, as he drew abreast of them. Stenner reached out and grabbed the gunwale of Darby's boat and pulled them together.

'Good morning, Mr Darby,' he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the warrant. As he did, St Claire raised up on one knee and held the pistol out at arm's length, pointing straight at Darby's face.

'Kindly put that scattergun down on the bottom of that skiff,' he said with harsh authority.

'We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr Darby,' Stenner said, and held the warrant in front of his face.

Darby was obviously startled. Even in the fog and predawn gloom, they could see the colour in his face drain from ruddy to pasty-white.

'That's no good up here,' he snarled. The dog snarled menacingly in the front of the boat. 'Shut up, Rags.' The dog whined into silence.

'Sheriff'll be waiting when we get back't'camp,' said St Claire. 'You wouldn't want to add unlawful flight to your problems, now, would ya?'

'I'm not fleeing. Do I look like I'm fleeing to you? I got nothin' to flee about.'

'This warrant charges you with first-degree murder in the death of your wife. You have a right to remain silent - '

'I know the drill,' he hissed, and put the shotgun aside. 'I heard it all before.'

'I'd like you to turn around and put your hands behind your back, please,' Stenner said formally. 'I have to cuff you.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Darby said.

'Procedure.'

'Don't do that, please,' he said. His tone had changed suddenly from arrogant to almost solicitous.

'I told you, it's procedure.'

'Not behind my back, okay? Where would I go?'

'Don't give us any guff, son,' St Claire said.

'I'm asking you, please don't tie my hands behind my back,' he begged. 'I… I can't swim.'

St Claire looked at Stenner, who in turn looked at Darby, who was plainly terrified. The dog walked unsteadily back and started to growl again.

'I said, shut up!' Darby bellowed, and smacked the dog in the face. It yelped and curled up on the floor of the skiff. 'Please,' he pleaded.

'Cuff him in front, Harve,' Stenner said in a flat, no-nonsense monotone. St Claire holstered his pistol and moved up beside him.

'Thanks,' Darby said, holding his hands out for St Claire to shackle. Once cuffed, Darby laid on the bottom of the boat with his head barely visible over the side. The abused Rags crawled up beside him and licked his face.

'Dogs'll forgive anything,' St Claire said, shaking his head. He looked down at Darby. 'What were ya doin' out there in the marsh?' he asked.

'Took a dump,' Darby said sullenly.

'Helluva dump. Sounded like the Titanic goin' down.' He swung the bow light around, letting its beam cut through the rising fog. Darby's boat had left a pathway through the water grass. 'Lookee there,' St Claire said with a grin. 'He left us a little trail't'foller.'

He tied Darby's boat to the back of their skiff and headed back through the marsh grass. To the east, the rising sun bloodied the mist and cast long, dim shadows across the marsh. A snake glided past them, unconcerned, looking for breakfast, its head sticking up, perusing the terrain. Off in the still persistent fog, a bird squawked and they could hear its big wings flapping through the grey, awakening morning. Presently the path ended. The grass was folded down in a large circle. At one end, the skeletal fingers of a tree branch reached up out of the water.

'Think this here's the place,' he told Stenner. 'Why don't I tie down here and wait for you to take him back to the lodge and bring the sheriff and a coupla drag lines out here.'

'Fair enough,' Stenner answered, and swung the two boats together. 'I'm coming over there,' he told Darby. 'Keep your dog in tow.'

'He's all noise,' Darby said. 'What's this all about, anyway?'

'Poppy Palmer,' Stenner said, and Darby's face turned the colour of wet cement as Stenner stepped into the skiff.

'What're you talking about?' Darby whined. 'She went to see her sister in Texarkana.'

'She ain't got a sister in Texarkana.'

'That ain't my fault!'

'Now there's a goddamn non sequitur for ya.' St Claire laughed.

'Back as fast as I can, Harve,' Stenner said. 'You'll be okay?'

St Claire looked at him balefully and took a swig of coffee as the other skiff rumbled off through the grass and into the crimson morning.

Sun and wind had sent the fog swirling away and the morning had dawned bright and cold when St Claire saw the thirty-foot powerboat cruising up the creek. He put two fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled shrilly and waved. They turned into the marsh and slid quietly up to his boat. Stenner was standing beside the sheriff, a tall, bulky man in a dark blue jacket wearing a brown campaign hat with his badge pinned to the crown.

'Mornin' gentlemen,' St Claire said. 'Thanks fer comin' by.'

The sheriff's boat churned to a stop as he walked to the bow and, leaning over, took St Claire's hand.

'Jake Broadstroke,' he said in a voice that sounded like it came from his toes. 'Sorry we took so long, had to round up a couple of divers. Hope you two know what you're talking about.'

'Well, it's a hunch,' St Claire said. 'But I got thirty years a hunches under m'belt and I ain't often wrong.'

One of the divers, dressed in a black wet suit and a face mask, slipped over the side of the big boat. The water was waist-deep.

'Hell, Sheriff, I doubt we'll need the drag lines. Bottom's a little murky, but we oughtta be able to tread it out. Somebody hand me a light.'

He took the waterproof lamp, adjusted his face mask, and went under, joined a minute or two later by the other diver. Everybody settled back and waited. Nobody said anything. The only sound was the wind rattling the weeds.

Half an hour crept by. The sheriff gnawed on the remains of a cigar. St Claire spat freely into the wind-rippled water. Stenner said nothing. All eyes gazed out over the reeds. Then the muddy swamp churned a bit and a woman's head suddenly broke the surface, rising up out of the water. Wet-dark hair streaked down over a bloated, blue-grey face, partially covering a gaping mouth filled with mud. Black links of chain were gnarled around her throat. Water dribbled from her glassy eyes and for just a moment or two she appeared to be weeping. Poppy Palmer had danced her last striptease.

'Ah, Jesus,' St Claire said.

'Yes,' Stenner said, almost inaudibly. 'I was hoping we were wrong, too.'