Schemers

26

TUCKER DEVRIES

He adjusted the focus on his Nikkormat, checked the light meter, made another adjustment. The dawn light coming through the broken window and open door was just right-kind of pearly, like an oyster shell. But it wasn’t strong enough yet-he’d still have to use the Vivitar flash. Better try to make these last few snaps as perfect as he could.

This was the second roll of film he’d shot. The first roll, last night after they got here, had been all handheld with little or no light-a dozen pix in and out of the van, the rest in here. No way to know how well they’d turn out until he developed them, but he was good at estimating distances and exposure needs under those conditions; he had a feeling they’d be pretty good. This second roll he knew would be good. As soon as it was daylight he’d carried the tripod in and set the Nikkormat up on it. Every shot since had been calculated, meticulously framed and lighted.

One more adjustment. Okay, ready. No, not just yet. When he squinted through the viewfinder, his vision was a little smeary. Lack of sleep. Twenty-four hours without it now and he was bone-tired. But there was still a lot to do. He’d sleep when he was done. He’d sleep real good then.

He wiped his eye on his jacket sleeve. It still felt sticky with mucus. Henderson was watching him. Well, let him watch, let him wait, he wasn’t going anywhere with two rolls of duct tape around him and the big wooden chair.

Devries went outside into the chill morning hush, then around the cabin to the stream that ran murmuring along the edge of the woods. The water was so cold it made him shudder, numbed his hands and cheeks. But clean, sweet, free of pollutants. So much better than city water. His vision was clear when he finished, and his skin tingled.

Inside the cabin again, he dried off on the towel from the van. Now he was ready. He rechecked the light meter, took another squint through the viewfinder. Henderson was framed in the exact center. Red eyes, cracked lips, gray-flecked beard stubble, animal scowl. Perfect.

“Smile,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Henderson had said that before, at least a dozen times since he’d dragged him in here from the van. Didn’t bother Devries. He’d expected whining, begging, but all he’d gotten so far was anger and abuse. Give the devil’s spawn his due. Henderson had plenty of guts. He wouldn’t die screaming, the way Mother must have. The way Lloyd Henderson should have.

Okay, set up another shot. Use the timer this time, so he could be in it, too. He’d taken a few of those two-shots before, but one more wouldn’t hurt. The gun to Henderson’s head again? The closed jar of acid tilted above his face? No, something different. Maybe open the jar, dribble a little of the acid on Henderson’s leg, capture the vapor from sizzling flesh and what was sure to be an openmouthed yell of pain? No, the pain would make him thrash around and spoil the shot. Save the acid for later, when Henderson was dead. Burn what was left of him, the way he’d burned the father’s ashes.

Make it the gun again, then, only from another perspective. Kneel down behind him, tuck the muzzle up under his throat. Good! The composition would be just right.

The automatic was on the table by the door, with his camera bag and briefcase. When he had the camera ready, he went and got the gun and thumbed off the safety. Henderson watched him with his hard, fearless eyes.

“You going to finish it now?”

“No. Sit still.”

Devries set the timer for twenty seconds, went around behind Henderson and into the pose he’d decided on, smiling a little, not too much-a grim executioner’s smile. Henderson moved his head and his eyes, the only parts of his body he could move, trussed up the way he was. It was so quiet inside and outside that the sound of the shutter tripping was like the pop of a small pistol.

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

Henderson had said that before, too. Devries gave back the same answer as he got to his feet: “Not yet.”

“Sadistic son of a bitch.”

“I’m not sadistic.”

“Hell you’re not. All those pictures, keeping me wrapped up like a goddamn mummy, torturing me.”

“Torture? I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

“Making me wait before you kill me. Like a fucking terrorist.”

“No! Executioner.”

“Bullshit, man. How many times do I have to tell you my father didn’t kill your mother?”

“The evidence says he did. Evidence doesn’t lie.”

“Evidence. Christ.”

“Her own words, her own testimony.”

“I don’t care what she wrote in her diary or whatever it is. He didn’t kill her. He never hurt anyone in his life.”

“You want me to read it to you again? All the evidence?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He went and got the notebook from his briefcase, handling it carefully as he always did. Not a diary or a journal, just a random collection of notes Mother had made-dates, names, events, impressions, reminders. He was in there, many times until the last few pages. “My sweet baby, Tucker. My handsome boy, Tucker.” His miserable damn father a few times, the sentences bitter and angry. Men she’d dated, casual affairs, you couldn’t blame her for seeking love and comfort after Anthony Noakes abandoned the two of them. And then Lloyd Henderson. Nine entries, right at the end, five happy and hopeful, three infuriating and terrible. Evidence. Irrefutable testimony.

The notebook opened in his hands, as if by itself, to that last section. Mother’s round, cramped handwriting in faded purple ink. The smeared word at the bottom of the last page: teardrop, tearstain. Mother’s tears.

He stood next to Henderson, loomed over him, and read the passages aloud again, the same ones in the same order.

“‘I love Lloyd. More than I ever loved Anthony. I know he’s married and he’s never made any promises, never said he loves me, but I feel his love when we’re in bed. It’s not just sex. He loves me as much as I love him.’

“‘Went to his camp today, I just needed to see him for a few minutes. But I shouldn’t have. He was there with his friends and he made me leave. He was so angry, like Anthony used to get sometimes. It’s a side to Lloyd I hope I never see again.’

“‘I’m going to have Lloyd’s baby. Our love child. I didn’t do it on purpose, it was an accident, but he’ll be happy when I tell him. I know he will.’

“‘He was furious, that awful angry side of him. He said the baby’s not his. He said he doesn’t want to see me anymore, it’s over between us. How can he say that after what we’ve been to each other?’

“‘I drove down to Los Alegres, I saw his wife, I saw him at his office. He called me a dirty little slut. He said he’d kill me if I told anybody he was the father of my baby. The way he looked at me… like he really did want me dead. God, how could I have been so stupid?’”

And the last entry, the final damning piece of testimony, written the day before she disappeared. “‘Lloyd drove up this afternoon alone. I saw his truck go by the store. After work tomorrow I’m going to his camp. I don’t care if he doesn’t want me, he has to help me with the baby. He has to. He used me and now he has to pay. I’ll make him pay.’”

Devries closed the notebook. His eyes were wet again, like hers were when she wrote those last words. “You see?” he said. “You see? She didn’t make him pay, he made her pay. That night, right here. Her and the baby both. Strangled her and then dumped her in the woods for the animals… the animals…”

“It wasn’t my father. She wasn’t killed here.”

“She was. I know she was.”

“Somebody else…”

“That same night? Attacked her, strangled her, that same night? Coincidence? No, Henderson. No, no, no!”

“I’ll never believe my father did it. He had an affair with your mother; all right, he wasn’t a saint. But he wasn’t a murderer, either.”

“He was! He’s dead, I can’t punish him, but I’ve got you and I’ll get your brother, too, devil’s sons, bastards, you’ll both die in his place, right here where he killed my mother and my baby brother or sister!”

He realized he was screaming. His temples were pounding, his face was hot and running sweat. Control. Don’t lose it now, it’s not finished yet, there’s still the other one, Damon. Take deep breaths. Get a grip.

“Go ahead then,” Henderson said. “Shoot me, get it over with.”

“No.”

“Do it, damn you.”

“No. Not yet.”

Now he felt dirty all over. Crawly, as if bugs had come up out of the floor, dropped off the ceiling, and were trying to burrow beneath his skin. Scrub them off, get clean for the execution. You had to be clean. For Mother’s sake. She’d drummed that into his head so many times. Be clean, Tucker. Always keep yourself clean.

He went outside, stood sucking in the chill mountain air until it cooled him and his head quit pounding. He made himself walk slowly around the cabin to the stream. When he knelt down on the bank, he realized he was still holding the gun; he put the safety on, shoved the automatic inside his belt. In the splashes and scrubs of icy water, the bugs shriveled and died and his skin tingled and he was clean again. He stood, dripping, and went around the front of the cabin.

A man was standing there against the front wall.

Devries stopped, staring in disbelief. At first he thought he must be hallucinating. But no, no, the man was real. Big, hard-looking, somebody he’d never seen before.

“Hello, Tucker.”

He reached for the gun, his fingers, still wet, slipsliding around the handle. But the stranger was already moving, fast. There was a slash of pain at the joining of his neck and shoulder and the entire right side of his body went numb. He stood there bent and swaying, confused. Left hand, get the gun with his left hand… but the gun wasn’t there anymore, the stranger had it now.

Another cut of pain, all through his left side this time. And all at once he was down on the grass, writhing, numb all over, looking up at the hard face above him through a watery blur. He tried to say something, he wasn’t even sure what it was, but his throat muscles wouldn’t work. The noises he made sounded like a baby’s gurgle.

The man caught hold of his jacket collar and he felt himself being dragged through the dew-wet grass, pulled up the porch steps, slammed back against a support post. He couldn’t prevent any of it, couldn’t move his arms, could barely feel his legs. Paralyzed. What did he do to me?

Something cold and hard snapped around one wrist. Through the blur he saw that it was a ring of steel. Handcuff. The other ring clicked around a railing post. Hard footsteps thudded in his ears, across the porch, into the cabin. Voices, then, like noisy fish swimming in the confusion inside his head.

“Runyon! My God, I’d given up hope-”

“You all right? He hurt you, burn you?”

“No, no. Just numb, cramped… Where’s Devries?”

“Handcuffed outside.”

“How did you-?”

“Judo. He won’t give us any trouble.”

Sounds of tape being torn loose. And the voices, still swimming.

“I thought for sure I was dead. How’d you know where he took me?”

“I was here before, three days ago. Figured it out when I remembered the chair and the table over there, the only things he hadn’t wrecked and burned. I had to park down the road so he wouldn’t hear me coming. Wasn’t sure I’d make it in time.”

“You almost didn’t. He’s crazy… he thinks my father killed his mother. It’s not true. I don’t care what kind of proof he thinks he’s got.”

It is true, Devries thought. It is, it is. Lloyd Henderson. Dead, and his sons both alive. I’m sorry, Mother. I tried. For you and the baby. I tried so hard but I waited too long.

Tears in his eyes, deepening the blur. Like her tears that last night, the droplet on the smeared purple ink.

He felt dirty. He felt as if now, no matter what he did, he would never be clean again.