The Seven File

Twenty-five

Inspector West had used the office of Sheriff Davis as his headquarters during the tense, exhausting day. Now it was almost dark and he was relaxing for a few moments at the sheriff’s desk. In the square below him groups of people stood talking in the gathering dusk; he could hear the faint murmur of their voices, see the flare of their cigarettes in the deep gloom. They were discussing the kidnaping, he knew; no one in Williamsboro had talked about anything else that day. The village had been swamped by newspapermen, photographers, television crews; the wire services and big dailies had flown in reporters, and mobile TV units had been cruising through the streets all day long, covering every detail they could get a camera on. Anyone who had been in contact with the kidnapers had become exciting and newsworthy; the druggist, the grocery clerk, friends and relatives of the dead Adam Wilson — they had been interviewed, quoted, photographed, their likenesses and comments preserved forever on tapes and film.

West had held two press conferences, and had faced TV cameras every time he stepped from his office into the corridors of the courthouse. These were chores, irksome but necessary; the public had first rights to the story now. But there was also a vast amount of work to be done — fingerprints, photographs, personal inventories — the routine but exhaustive processing of the prisoners. And their stories had to be checked and rechecked, the contradictions examined from every possible perspective. Leads had to be run down, fast; this morning West hadn’t been able to assume that he had caught all the kidnap mob in one bag. There might be a lookout, a courier, a pickup man, still free, and he didn’t intend to give anyone a chance to run for cover.

This work had gone on at a furious, orderly pace, but now, at last, things were blessedly quiet for a few minutes. The clerks had gone home, his agents were out for dinner, and even the reporters and TV crews had drifted away from their posts in the corridor. The sheriff s second floor suite was calm and peaceful, and West sighed as he lit a cigarette and shifted into a comfortable position in the swivel chair. But the door to the inner office opened a moment or so later, and Hank Farrel walked into the room.

West smiled at him. “Pretty short nap.”

“There’s not much point trying to sleep,” Hank said.

“You’ve been churning along at about three times normal speed for quite a while. It takes time to slow down. How about a cigarette?”

“Thanks.” Hank sat down slowly and rubbed a hand over his forehead. He was completely spent, but he wasn’t able to sleep. The doctor had given him a sedative half an hour ago, and West had told him to stretch out on the sofa in the sheriff s inner office. But sleep hadn’t come; he had lain staring at the dark ceiling, keeping a vigil with his thoughts. This day had been the longest of his life. They had dressed his injured hand, and then listened to his story — not once or twice, but twenty times. Fifty... They had checked his statement point by point, cross-examining him on each detail. Not merely to trip him up, he knew; they wanted to be sure he hadn’t been involved in the kidnaping. Eventually they had accepted his story; the girl’s testimony had supported his statement fully and exactly. And Grant had talked...

“Is there any reason I can’t go home?” he said.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Are the reporters still out there?”

“No, you won’t be bothered. Your car is parked in back of the courthouse. I think you can get away without posing for any more pictures.”

“Fine. Were there any calls for me?”

“There was a message from Mr. Bradley,” West said. “He’s grateful, which is putting it about as mildly as possible. He wants to talk to you, up here or in New York, at your convenience. And on the same subject, let me say I’m grateful, too, Hank. You had a very tough job and you handled it perfectly.”

“Thanks,” Hank said, getting to his feet. He felt awkward and stiff. “And there were no other calls?”

“No.”

She had said she would call him — here or out at the lodge. When she had a minute... They hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words this morning. West had listened to their stories and then she and the baby had been driven out to the airport to meet the Bradleys. But before that she had crossed to him and put a hand on his arm. She had said she would call him, as soon as she could...

“There’s one favor I’d like to ask,” Hank said.

West sighed and came around his desk. “I can guess,” he said. “You want to see your brother.”

“Yes — can I?”

“Sure, but why not wait a day or so?”

“I’m ready now.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.”

“Adam Wilson is dead, Hank,” the Inspector said, and now there was a hard, angry edge to his voice. “A friend of yours, a good, decent guy. The woman, Belle, is dead. It’s only through the grace of God that the baby and the nurse are alive. You, too, for that matter. The baby’s parents were put through three days of unrefined hell, waiting to know if they’d ever seen their child again. This is the dirtiest crime in the book, for my money.” West made a sharp, abrupt gesture with his hand. “And how do you think your brother is taking it? Can you guess? He’s playing it for laughs. Wisecracking, acting as if he’s a celebrity besieged by autograph hounds. He’s loving every minute of it, enjoying the attention and excitement. If you think he’s touched by repentance, or any kind of regret — think again.” West sighed and shook his head. “I sound pretty tough, I know. But I don’t want you to walk in on that right now. Don’t you think you’ve taken enough in the last three days?”

“I don’t know,” Hank said. “But I want to see him. There isn’t much time left.”

“Time for what?”

Hank shrugged wearily. “I don’t know. It’s just the way I feel.”

“All right then,” the Inspector said, turning to his desk. “I’ll arrange it.” He was reaching for the phone when it began to ring. “Excuse me,” he said, lifting the receiver. “Hello, this is West.” The Inspector listened a moment, nodding slowly. Then he said, “When was this? All right... thanks very much. Yes, yes, of course. Good-by.”

Frowning faintly, West put the receiver back into its cradle. He stared at the top of the desk for a few seconds, then sighed and looked up at Hank. “I don’t know whether this will be good or bad news for you, son.”

“What happened?”

“Your brother died a few minutes ago,” West said quietly. “He complained of a pain in his chest after dinner. He suffered two heart attacks within half an hour. He didn’t recover from the last one.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes. The doctor said his heart must have been in bad shape for some time. I don’t suppose he’d had a check-up lately.”

“Check-up? No, I’m sure he hadn’t. He — he didn’t have much use for doctors.” Hank stood perfectly still, staring out the window behind the sheriff’s desk. He saw the branches of a maple tree stirring slowly in the darkness, and beyond that the lights of the village, shining in the night. “And he’s dead now,” he said softly. The fact was almost impossible to credit; it was as if half of himself had died. Even when he was away from Duke he had never been free from the dark, insistent presence; he had carried his brother with him all his life. Now the burden had been lifted and he knew he would miss it — ache for it at times.

Hank turned toward the door and Inspector West came after him and put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you stay here and have supper with me?”

“Thanks — I think I’d rather go home.”

“We won’t make a production out of it,” West said. “Just a steak and a bottle of beer. How about it?”

“Can’t I take a rain check on it?”

“Of course you can. But I thought you might want to talk a while.”

Hank shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing to talk about. It just doesn’t make any sense to me. My brother was—” He shrugged tiredly, realizing the futility of explanations. “He was trouble,” he said bitterly. “For himself, for everybody. He could have been anything. He said that after I shot him. It was true. Instead he was trouble. Two hundred pounds of trouble, swinging crazily at anything in its way. Does that make any sense to you?”

“I don’t have any snap answers,” West said. “In my job I’ve seen all kinds of people, all kinds of evil. When I was younger I kept watching for a pattern in human behavior, an equation that would make it all clear and significant to me. I thought I could find a few words that might explain all the mysteries and contradictions I kept running up against. But I never found those words. Now I know I never will.”

“So it makes no sense to you either?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve found out this much, Hank. Sometimes evil is clear and understandable. Sometimes it makes no sense at all. But it’s still our responsibility to face it — as you’ve done. Someone else may understand it. Someone with perfect understanding. Do you know what I mean? With that kind of understanding there may be sympathy, even forgiveness.”

Hank was silent for a moment or so, and then he smiled faintly at the Inspector. “I’ll be at the lodge if you need me. Good night.”

“There’s one other thing.” West stepped across the room and took a wallet from the middle drawer of the sheriff’s desk. “This belonged to your brother,” he said. “It was all he had on him. I thought you might like to take it along.”

Hank hesitated a moment, staring at the worn, black leather wallet. “Yes, I’ll take it along,” he said, and when he spoke he felt the sudden tightness in his throat. “So long, Inspector.”

“You’ve got a rain check on that steak, remember.”

“I won’t forget.” Hank smiled quickly at him and left the office.

Half an hour later Hank crossed the porch of the lodge and fitted his key into the lock. He hesitated then, glancing over his shoulder at the dark shadows that crowded the house. The parking light on his car was a futile yellow gleam against the night; he could just see the white curve of the gravel road, and the uneven silhouettes of fir trees against the black skyline. The woods were quiet and unmoving; the faint wash of the water and the far-off cry of a hunting owl were harsh sounds against the unstirring silence.

Hank stared around, listening; it would be like this for a long time, he realized. When he came up here he would be watching for movement in the shadows beside the porch, cocking his head toward a snapping twig or the sudden rustle of a bird in the trees. Finally he opened the door and went inside. The silence in the house struck him as unnatural; he became aware that he was holding his breath, listening for a soft footstep on the stairs, the sound of whispering, conspiring voices in the kitchen.

Someone had put everything in order. Probably Sheriff Davis had sent a woman out, he thought. The floor was scrubbed clean, the lamps and chairs had been straightened, embers glowed faintly in the fireplace. But you couldn’t get rid of ghosts with soap and water, he thought; the house was like a big empty stage, ready and waiting for actors to make their entrances.

Hank rubbed both hands over his face. There would be no entrances; he was letting his nerves run riot. Duke wouldn’t saunter in from the kitchen, a grin on his dark face, his eyes alert for trouble. Duke was dead. And Belle and Grant were gone. He might write Belle’s son some day, he thought. Soften it a little. She had helped at the end.

Hank walked slowly across the room and put another log on the hot ashes. With a hand resting on the mantel he watched smoke curl around the log, and the little spears of fire attacking the dry bark. Finally the wood crackled and burst into flames, and the draft shot up the chimney with a breathless roar. He stood watching the fire, not knowing what to do next; he was hungry but he didn’t want to eat, he was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep. After a while he sighed and took Duke’s wallet from his pocket. He turned it around in his hands, examining the dry cracks along the fold, the broken stitches in the seams. Inside there was a five-dollar bill, and a collection of business cards under a celluloid shield. Five dollars... a bottle and a package of cigarettes. The cards were without significance; a liquor store that promised night and day deliveries, a garage, a men’s clothing shop with a salesman’s name printed in the right-hand comer.

One compartment of the wallet was zippered shut. Hank opened it and removed a carefully wrapped packet that was about the size of a playing card. A faint memory tugged at him. Turning toward the light, he saw that the packet contained a snapshot protected by layers of fine tissue paper. He had seen this before... he remembered the look of the blurred features through the paper. He had found this picture in Duke’s drawer, rummaging about with a child’s pointless curiosity. And Duke had caught him. Unconsciously Hank’s fingers moved up to trace the scar on his forehead. What had Duke hit him with? A tennis racket...

Hank removed the layers of silk-smooth paper, and studied the snapshot of Duke’s mother. She had been in her middle twenties when this picture was taken, more girl than woman, awkward and shy, pretty, with long, dark hair and a thin, animated face. The print was hazy and blurred, but he could see her clear, direct eyes and the little smile pulling at her full lips. She wore a print housedress with a soft, round collar. She looked friendly but somewhat tentative, as if she might be uncomfortable with people until she got used to them. She had only completed one year of high school. His mother had told him that, he remembered.

Duke had been eight when she died, and he had carried her picture for more than thirty years, hiding it from everyone else, guarding this relic of her with sullen, passionate jealousy. What did that tell you about him? Nothing...

There was no way to know — no way to guess at what this shyly smiling woman had meant to him, or what her death had destroyed in him. Had he tried to revenge himself on the world for taking her from him?

Guessing was futile. What had the Inspector said? Someone might understand him. Someone with perfect understanding. Staring at the picture, he remembered what an army chaplain had once said to him: “I believe in hell, certainly. But if you were to ask me if anyone is in hell — well, I might give you an argument. Who am I to put a limit on God’s mercy?”

The phone began to ring then, and the sound was clear and welcome in the silent house. He turned toward it, a smile touching his lips. She had said she would call...

He stared around the room, seeing the firelight on the smooth pine flooring, hearing the wind pressing against the windowpanes. The phone called to him again, and he let the faded snapshot slip from his hand into the fire. He didn’t wait to see the flames take it. This was the closing of a door, the final goody-bye. He went quickly to the phone and lifted the receiver. His movements were sure and confident, and a smile came on his face as he heard her voice.