Go Home, Stranger

Twelve

Somehow his feet were under him. He had no strength, and lunged forward and fell, choking on the water he had swallowed. He felt hands tugging at him, and heard the same imploring voice at his ear, urging him on. He was up again, clawing at the bank. Something came out of nowhere and slammed into the damp soil, exploding it in a shower all about him. Then he was over the bank. He stumbled and fell again, dimly conscious that somebody else was at his side and falling with him.

He lay for a moment, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed for breath. He opened his eyes and the wildness and the dark mist were going away. His face was against cloth and warmth, and when he turned his head wonderingly he was looking into frightened and anxious brown eyes very close to his own. She had fallen on her side, with his head held against her.

“Are you all right?” she gasped.

He turned and stared incredulously in the other direction. The far shore was invisible beyond the screen of foliage protecting them, but he could see projecting out into the water the old windfall in which he had been entangled. Patricia Lasater had gone out there and pulled him free while the man shot at them.

He sat up and tried to get to his feet. He was still too weak, and his legs were rubbery.

“Are you sure you’re all right? She asked again.

“Yes,” he said. “You haven’t got a gun, have you?” He was vaguely conscious that this was a stupid question to ask.

“No.” She stood up. Her white blouse and the brief shorts were soaked and there was a scratch on one of her legs just above the knee. She caught his arm as he stood up. “This way,” she said breathlessly, pointing down the channel. “Run. I heard a boat—up there.”

The roaring was going out of his head now and he was beginning to think again. He knew what she meant. The other man had crossed over and would be coming down this side with his rifle.

She ran swiftly, and at first he had difficulty keeping up. In a moment he began to get his breath back and came up alongside her, helping her with a hand on her arm. Now and then he looked back over his shoulder as they raced through the timber.

She began to tire. She stumbled once and would have fallen, but he caught her. They stopped at last and sank to the ground in a mass of ferns while they sobbed for breath.

“It’s—not much farther,” she gasped.

“What?”

“My boat. Just below—the bend.”

“The motor on it?”

She nodded, too winded to speak again. Reno came up to his knees and swiftly searched the forest behind them. There was no movement. A jay sat on a limb above them and scolded raucously. Stool pigeon, he thought grimly. Time to move.

“Can you make it now?” he asked gently.

She merely nodded, and started pulling herself up. He helped her. The bend of the bayou was off to their left, then behind them as they approached the channel below it. She ran ahead now, searching for the boat.

It was well hidden, tied up under overhanging limbs. “Get in,” he commanded. “And lie down. I’ll handle the motor.”

She started to protest, but after a glance at his face she obeyed. He took one last look; behind them, untied the anchor rope, swung the bow outward, and climbed on the stern. It’d better catch the first time, he thought. They’ll hear it.

The motor coughed. He pulled again; it caught this time and lifted its popping roar above the stillness. They slid out into the channel, turned sharply, and began to gather speed. He pulled the throttle wide, his back feeling icy. They were out in the open now, sitting ducks if either of the men had made it as far as the bend. Seconds dragged by and there was no shot. They rounded the next bend in the channel and he breathed again, the tension running out of him.

She sat up in the middle seat, facing him, and ran an unsteady hand through her dark curls. Noticing how the blouse was plastered against her, she attempted to pull it away, faintly embarrassed. She had mud on one cheek and on her chin, and traces of bayou scum on her forearms. Reno looked briefly at her and then at the channel ahead, wondering when he had seen a girl as mussed—or as beautiful in spite of it. Neither of them said anything. The motor made too much noise.

A mile of twisting waterway fled astern, and then another. They were beyond the last fork now, almost back to the main arm of the bayou and the camp. They were safe. Abruptly, he cut the motor and let the boat drift to a stop in the shade near overhanging trees along the bank. He caught a limb and held it. The bayou stretched out deserted and quiet ahead of them.

She looked at him questioningly.

“We’re all right now,” he said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What is that?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m just not very good with words.”

She looked gravely at his face and then away. “Anyone would have done it.”

“Under fire? Those weren’t blanks they were shooting.”

“Yes. I know. But I tried not to think about them.”

After they made this kid, he thought, they threw away the plans and broke up the molds. Even with swamp on her face she looks like something you’d run into in a dream, and she’s got a system about being shot at. Keep busy and don’t think about it.

“Look,” he said at last, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but how did you happen to be there?”

She studied the bottom of the boat. “Could we call it just luck?”

He felt the sharp stab of disappointment, but waited a moment before answering. When she looked up again and their eyes met, he said, “Yes. I’ll tell you how it is, Pat. After what’s just happened, we call it anything you say.”

“Thank you. In that case, I’ll amend it. It wasn’t all luck.”

“No?”

“No. I was following you.”’

“Why?”

She answered slowly, “I was looking for something.”

“What?”

This time she waited a long time before replying. “I’d rather not say now, if you don’t mind. Not yet, anyway.”

“Did you find it, whatever it was?”

“I’m not sure.”

She’ll tell me when she’s ready, he thought. I can’t rush her.

“I didn’t hear your motor. Or see you.”

“I was using the oars. And staying way back.”

“Did you hear those explosions? Just before they shot at me the first time?”

She nodded.

“You have any idea at all what they were?”

“No. It sounded like dynamite, but rather muffled.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m almost certain they were I set off under water. But you don’t know who could have done it? Or why?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head in bewilderment. “I was hoping to find out, the same as you were. But apparently whoever was doing it had other ideas.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

She stared at him. “I’ve noticed that about a number of things around here.” Then she added, “But I think we’d better go on. I’d like to change clothes, and put some iodine on this scratch.”

“Oh.” He reached back to start the motor. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not much. But I’d like to attend to it.”

When they pulled up at the float there was no one around. Shadows were lengthening now, and dark tranquil water mirrored the timber along the other shore. She stepped out and started to turn toward the path while he made the skiff fast. Then she paused.

He looked up. The brown eyes were regarding him with a disconcerting levelness. “I almost forgot,” she said quietly. “There was something I wanted to tell you.”

“What?”

“That good-time floozie you were so humorous about this morning—”

It caught him off guard. He could only stare.

“I thought you might like to know. She turned herself in to the police today.” Swinging about, she started up the path.

“Wait,” he called. But she was gone.

He caught her as she was passing his cabin. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Yes?” she said coolly.

“Yes. It’s important.”

She relented then. “All right. In about a half hour.”

He changed into dry clothing and shaved without knowing what he did. His thoughts ran futilely after a hundred questions at once. If she had gone to the police maybe that would take the pressure off Vickie. Wouldn’t that explode their so-called motive? Couldn’t they see it? But why had she waited all these days? It was obvious she had wanted to before this. And what about the trailer? And Easter? Who was she, and what was she looking for? She’ll tell me; she’ll clear it up.

When she came out of her cabin the short curls had been restored to their casual symmetry and to the dull gleam of polished ebony. She had changed to a white cotton dress and gilt sandals, but the smooth tanned legs were stockingless. She was fresh and sweet and very disturbing as she stepped down from the porch. She did not smile, however; the large eyes were quite serious.

He helped her into the car and got behind the wheel. “Would you go up past the Counselor?” she asked as they came out onto the highway. “I’d like to show you something.”

They went past it. She said nothing. A quarter mile beyond, as they neared a dirt road leading off to the right, she nodded, and he turned into it, wondering. The only thing in this direction was the ship channel, and there wouldn’t be a bridge—not on this road. In a few minutes they came to the end of it. There was only a field, off to their left, and the dark line of trees along the waterway. He stopped, and it was not until then that he saw, the scars of torn limbs and trunks that disfigured a pair of huge live oaks directly ahead over the edge of the water.

He turned and looked at her. “This was where it was?” It was as if the thing he had sensed before was now a certainty—that there was some dark link between her and that boat explosion.

“Yes,” she said simply.

He handed her a cigarette and lit it. She had turned a little on the seat and was facing him. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked.

Instead of answering his question, she asked quietly, “Mr. McHugh was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” he said. Something told him that everything had to be out in the open between him and this girl now and from this time onward. “He was the best friend I ever had. And Vickie Shane’s my sister.”

She nodded. “I should have guessed it before, I suppose. This morning, when you—”

“I’m sorry about that,” he interrupted. “But, you see, it was an act. I was fishing. I thought you might be the girl, but I still wasn’t sure.”

“Yes. I sensed that somehow, but it hit home anyway, because I deserved it. I know it’s a little late now to tell you this, but the only thing I can say in my defense is that I had no intention at all of leaving the country until I had gone, to the District Attorney and told him. But I was praying for time. I was desperate for just a few more days.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Reno said grimly. “I know what you mean. As soon as word got out that you were connected with McHugh in any way, or even knew him, time would be something you might run out of in a hurry.”

Her face was unhappy. “That’s it. Mr. McHugh believed—and I did, too—that there was some strange connection between the disappearances, some terrible thing we hadn’t even guessed—”

“Wait,” Reno broke in, his head jerking erect at her use of the plural. “You mean there was another one? Besides Conway?”

“Yes.” She took a puff on the cigarette and turned to look out across the blasted trees and the ship channel. “There was another one.” There was an infinite weariness in her tone.

Then she appeared to gather herself up, and went on, “But I’m trying to show you why I kept putting off going to the District Attorney. I was terrified. Suppose there was some connection, that it was all part of something terrible that we didn’t know about? He’d been killed, and if I went to the police it might get in the papers. I’d be exposed, with no place to hide; and even if the same man didn’t kill me, I’d never find out what I was trying to. Don’t you see, Mr. Reno?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I see, all right. And, incidentally, my name is Pete.” Then he added, “But you did go to the police today. Why?”

“I don’t know, actually. I guess I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I mean, knowing what Miss Shane was going through there all alone and that I was withholding the little help I could give her.”

“I don’t know whether you sit up nights worrying about my opinion,” he said. “But you’re all right, in my book.” Then he asked, “What happened? Today, I mean.”

“I went to the police first,” she said. “And talked to Lieutenant Wayland. He took me in to see the District Attorney. I told them about calling Mr. McHugh at his hotel that night and how he had met me in the lobby. I had something to tell him, so we walked around for a while, and then we sat on a bench over in the park for about an hour, talking about it—”

“Just a minute,” Reno interrupted. “What was it you told McHugh?”

“That I’d just come from the library, from looking up something in the back copies of the paper, and that I’d found out the ship this man Conway came back from Italy on had gone up the channel—”

“Just before Griffin’s boat blew up,” Reno finished softly.

She looked at him, startled. “How did you know?”

“I looked it up too. There’s one thing about all this mess—sooner or later you always get back to Counsel. But never mind that,” he went on quickly. “What did the District Attorney say? Maybe this will change their tune.”

She shook her head with regret. “I’m sorry, Pete. I’m not sure they even believed me.”

“Didn’t believe you?” he asked angrily. “Don’t they know you’ll make the same statement on the stand? And that if Vickie knew who you were and why you were there, what they call a motive is nothing but eyewash?”

“Yes, I know, Pete. But consider the way they’re looking at it. They have only my word for it. And they can still claim Miss Shane didn’t know who I was or didn’t believe it when she was told. And there’s all the other evidence. The only thing I really hoped was that they’d start looking into it from the angle of Conway’s—or Counsel’s—disappearance, before it’s too late, but I don’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off hopelessly.

She’s right, he thought bitterly. It might raise a reasonable doubt, at the trial itself, but the only way I’ll ever clear Vickie for good is to find the man who did it.

He turned away from his bleak contemplation of the ship channel and looked at her. “Let’s forget my troubles for the moment, Pat,” he said. “You were going to tell me how you got mixed up in this. And who is this other man who disappeared?”

“Two other men,” she corrected.

“Two?” he asked incredulously. “Who were they? And when?”

She crushed out her cigarette in the ash tray. “One of them was my brother.”

“When?” he asked again, very softly, but he was afraid he already knew.

“The last word I ever received from him was a post card mailed from Waynesport on May ninth.”