The Sixes

21

PHOEBE SCOOPED GINGER up again and scanned the little dog’s body for a wound. But she knew she wouldn’t find anything; she knew, with a rising sense of dread, that something was horribly wrong. Where was the old retriever? she wondered. Where was Hutch?

She clasped Ginger to her body again and stepped closer to the house. She saw through the outer screen door that the inner wooden door was slightly ajar, opening onto the darkened hallway inside. Phoebe rapped on the frame of the screened door and called through the opening.

“Hutch? Hutch, are you there?”

There was no reply, though from somewhere far off in the house—the kitchen, she guessed—came the faint murmur of radio voices.

“Hutch, are you okay?”

Behind her the wind snaked through the trees, making the branches moan. Phoebe spun around. The lamps behind the curtains in the living room were casting a jagged circle of light into the yard through the windows, but beyond that it was totally dark, and she could see nothing but the faint outline of trees. She was anxious to get inside.

“Hutch,” she called again, turning back to the door. “It’s me, Phoebe.” Ginger whimpered softly.

Phoebe breathed deeply and opened the screen door. The spring made a creaking sound as the door opened wide. She pushed open the inner door next and stepped into the entranceway. In the air was the familiar blend of wood smoke and pipe tobacco—and something else. Ginger twisted in Phoebe’s arms, fighting to get down, but Phoebe gripped her tightly.

“Hold on, Ginger, it’s okay,” Phoebe said.

But a second later, Phoebe could see that it wasn’t. Stepping from the hall into the living room, she discovered Hutch lying facedown on the floor, just in front of the couch. A pool of bright red blood bordered the right side of his head. And then she saw that blood was everywhere. It was spattered on the couch cushions and on the walls, even on the television screen. Phoebe groaned in despair.

Clutching Ginger, she staggered toward Hutch and knelt beside him. She knew she shouldn’t touch anything, but she had to see if he was alive. She set the dog down and groped around his neck for a pulse. She felt nothing, but wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. Grasping his shoulders, she heaved the old man onto his side.

She could tell instantly that he was dead. His eyes were blank, his mouth slack. His right temple had been battered and was now a caved-in, bloody mess. Pieces of what seemed to be tree bark protruded from the wound. At the top of his head was another wound, caked with blood.

“No, no,” Phoebe wailed, and choked back tears. Ginger scooted from behind her and tried to lick Hutch’s face. Phoebe grabbed the dog in her arms and struggled back up to a standing position. She had to call the police—but first she needed to get the hell out of there. She would call 911 once she was in her car and safely out onto the road.

She turned from Hutch’s body and started to cross the floor, careful where she stepped. She noticed for the first time that flames were dancing in the wood-burning stove, and it was piled with logs, as if Hutch had filled it only a short time ago. Instantly her brain processed the fact: This just happened. Her legs felt rubbery. Get out, get out, she told herself.

And then, directly above her, a floorboard groaned.

She froze in terror. Ginger began to squirm in her arms again, this time more forcibly, and then let out a sharp, tiny bark. Someone was up there, Phoebe realized, directly above her. Was it the retriever? she wondered. But it had sounded too heavy for a dog. No, she told herself, her mind strangely clear and precise. It’s the killer.

She didn’t dare go back through the front hallway—the stairs leading to the upper floor were there. Instead she lurched through the living room into the kitchen. The radio was playing music now, a peppy song that seemed absurd to her in light of everything. Phoebe flung open the kitchen back door and clattered down the steps.

It was pitch-dark out back, except for a faint glow from the kitchen light and some illumination from a sliver of moon. With Ginger still in her arms, she tore across the yard and into the first few feet of the woods that rimmed the back of the house. If only she could reach her car, she thought frantically, but by the time she made her way around to the front of the cabin, the killer might be down the stairs and outside the house. She had no choice but the woods, where at least she had the cover of darkness.

She plunged deeper into the trees. What little light the moon cast was obscured now by the dense branches. She could see almost nothing, just the bare outlines of things directly in front of her. She was wearing boots, at least, which made it easier to scramble over tree roots and logs, but the ground was also covered with mounds of dead leaves, and they made a whooshing noise with each movement of her legs. She was afraid the killer would hear her, know where she’d gone. When she was about twenty yards into the woods, she stopped to catch her breath. And to listen.

There wasn’t a sound now. The wind had stopped momentarily, Ginger was quiet, too—as if she knew she mustn’t make a peep—though Phoebe could feel the rapid beating of the little dog’s heart. Phoebe raised the dog slightly, so she could reach into her shoulder bag with her left hand and dig for her phone. Just as she’d managed to unsnap the purse, she heard a noise from back where the cabin was. It was the whooshing sound of someone else moving through the dead leaves.

God, no, please, Phoebe pleaded to herself. She began to move again, but slower this time, trying not to make noise. Branches snagged at her jeans and the sleeves of her coat, and one whipped across her face, stinging her. Still moving, she stuck her hand in her bag and rummaged desperately for her phone. Finally she felt its smooth surface and grabbed it. She quickly pounded in 9-1-1.

“Help me,” she told the operator in a whisper. “I’m in the woods, and someone is after me.”

“Can you speak up, ma’am, I can’t hear you.”

“I’m in the woods,” she hissed. “Behind Seven—um, Seven-ninety Horton Road. There’s been a murder, and the killer is after me.”

“Can you describe your location?”

“No—it’s just in the woods. Behind the house. Please, I can’t talk anymore. He’ll hear me. Just send someone.”

“I’m dispatching the police, ma’am. Please, leave your phone on.”

“Okay,” Phoebe said breathlessly.

She began to move again and realized that her feet were soaking wet. Glancing down, she saw that she was in mud, moving along the edge of a small stream. Behind her to the right, she could still hear the whooshing sound. Go faster, she screamed to herself. Faster.

The woods were deeper now, even thicker with trees. She could see only a foot ahead of her, and she was constantly forced to look down, to watch the ground for logs and underbrush. With a jerk, a branch suddenly snared the sleeve of her jacket and wouldn’t let go. Her fingers raced in a frenzy over the fabric as she tried to free herself. Finally she just yanked her body away. The sound of the fabric tearing seemed to carry through the woods. But beyond it she heard something else. Somewhere, off to the left, was the distant sound of cars passing by. The road, she thought. If she could reach it, she could flag down a car for help.

The whooshing sound behind her had stopped. Had the killer given up chasing her? She turned around, to be sure. At first all she saw were endless black trees, but then, as her eyes adjusted, she spotted a figure. The person, with a head as smooth as a bulb, stood on a rise not far behind her, illuminated slightly by the moon. Then the person began to move.

“He’s right behind me,” she nearly moaned into the phone. And then she screamed into the night, “I’ve called the police. They’re coming.” Ginger let out a low growl that made her whole little body hum.

Phoebe picked up her pace, forced every few seconds to catch herself from stumbling. Just get to the road, she told herself. The car sounds had receded. She stopped for a split second, just trying to listen. Close by, came the deep, shuddering sound of a truck moving. There, she told herself, and hurled herself forward.

Suddenly she seemed to be in midair, her feet no longer in touch with the ground. Two seconds later she landed hard, and she was rolling, rolling, rolling, over rocks and stumps and logs. She tried to hold on to Ginger, but seconds later she felt the dog being yanked from her. There was a crunching sound next, and pain shot through her arm and her head. Then it seemed as if she was under water, swimming slowly toward a place far away.

There was nothing next, just darkness and silence. And then a light was forcing her eyes open, making her head ache even more. It was from the beam of a flashlight, she realized. Someone was crouching just to her right. Her heart lurched. Was it the killer? But as she tried to lift herself, she saw that the person with the light was in uniform. A policeman. She let her head flop back onto the ground. She realized that she’d passed out, clearly for more than a minute or two.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he told her. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear the words, and she closed her eyes. She just wanted to sleep, even though she was wet and cold.

“Miss . . . miss.” It was the cop again, his voice stirring her.

“Yes?” she muttered, after struggling to open her eyes. She saw that there were now two cops, one just behind the other. Her head was pounding, and one of her arms ached badly, but she could barely tell which one. She began to shiver.

“An ambulance is on its way,” the cop said. “Try not to move, all right?”

Had she been trying to move? she wondered. She didn’t remember.

“Okay,” she said.

“Can you tell me your name?”

She had to think for a moment. “Phoebe,” she said finally. “Phoebe Hall . . . Where am I?”

Even as she spoke the words, she saw from the flashlight beams that she was at the bottom of a small hill. She could see the outlines of two other people with lights walking up on the ridge.

“You’re in a ravine,” the cop said. “You must have tripped when you were running.”

“The dog?” Phoebe blurted out. “She—”

“Don’t worry,” the cop said softly. “We’ve got her. She led us to you, in fact.”

Then Phoebe remembered Hutch and started to tear up.

“Can you tell us what happened?” the cop asked.

“Hutch. I came to see him. He was dead. And the killer—he was still in the house—upstairs. I . . .”

She wanted to say more, but she couldn’t. Everything felt so heavy—her legs and her arms, even her eyelids.

“Can I just sleep?” Phoebe whispered hoarsely. “For a little while?”

“You might have a concussion, so you need to stay awake,” he said. “At least until the ambulance comes. Can you do that for me?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” She felt so weary.

“Is that your dog?” he said. “She’s awfully cute.”

The cop talked to her then about little things. She could hear his voice droning in her ears, and sometimes she answered. Then there were more people moving around, lifting her. There was so much noise now, and she wanted to tell them, Shush, be quiet, I can’t sleep, but no words came out.

She was in an ambulance after that, but she couldn’t remember being lifted inside. There was something around her head—one of those protective braces, she thought. The siren made her head ache all over again.

Finally she was in the ER. Doctors and nurses stood over her, tugging off her clothes, prodding her.

“I’m Dr. Morton,” a woman said. She was tall and seemed to tower over the table Phoebe was lying on. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My head,” Phoebe said. “And my arm. The um—left one.”

“We’re going to fix you all up, okay?” the doctor said. Her green eyes were warm and caring. “You may have had a concussion, and your left elbow is broken. We’ll need to do some tests to see if there are any internal injuries.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe muttered.

“Is there someone you need us to call?” another woman asked. A nurse, Phoebe thought.

“No, that’s okay,” Phoebe said. She didn’t want Glenda around, but she knew she would have to alert her eventually.

“There are two detectives who want to talk to you, but I suggested they come back tomorrow. We need to make sure you’re okay,” the doctor said.

Phoebe was in the ER for what seemed like hours. They X-rayed her elbow, and then secured it, and right after that she was wheeled off to another location for a CAT scan of her head. As an orderly rolled her gurney back to the ER later, she wondered what would happen after all the tests were done.

“How will I get home tonight?” she muttered to the orderly.

He chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry about going home. We’re checking you into our fine hotel for the night. Rest assured, it’s four stars.”

Eventually she was brought to another floor and hoisted onto a bed for the night. She drifted off again, though she was aware of people coming in and out of the room, checking on her.

At some point her eyes popped open, and she felt suddenly wide awake. It was dark outside, but there were low lights on in the room, and she could see that she was in a private room with just one bed. The door was open, and from the hall she could hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of something being wheeled. She was on painkillers, she knew, but she sensed they’d begun to wear off—there was a dull ache in her head, her elbow, and, she realized for the first time, also in the left cheek of her butt.

As the minutes passed, her mind began to clear. She forced herself to go over everything, picking up a thread and following it backward. She had injured herself falling down a ravine in the dark. Someone had been chasing her. Hutch’s killer. Her face tightened in anguish as she thought of the kind man she had known so briefly. He had been brutally murdered, beaten to death. There was a chance, of course, that it was a burglary gone bad, but her gut told her it was about the investigation—the one she had lured Hutch into. She felt sick with guilt. Who was the person who had stood on the ridge? She had seen only the outline, but she remembered that the person’s head had seemed smooth as a skull.

Phoebe thought of Ginger then. Where was she? With relief she remembered what the cop with the flashlight had said. She led us to you. The police must have her. But what about the retriever—where had he gone? Hutch had said he had a nephew, and somehow Phoebe needed to contact him—to tell him about Hutch and to ask him to track down the dogs.

Odds and ends began to fight their way to the surface of her mind. Her purse and her phone. Surely the police had found them, or at the very least they would still be in the woods. Her car. It was still at Hutch’s. It was almost Monday, she realized, and she would have to miss class. She had to let the school know.

She shifted position, turning a bit onto her right side. She became aware that the pain was getting stronger now. She found the call button, and a nurse came in, giving her more medication. As she drifted off to sleep again a few minutes later, a gray light was seeping in around the edges of the window blinds. At least the night is over, she consoled herself.

The police wasted no time getting there in the morning. Phoebe had woken around seven, when a nurse came in to check on her. He’d helped her out of bed, and in the bathroom she was surprised to see that her tumble had remaining her with a black eye and a crosshatching of scratch marks on her face. The nurse had pointed out that her purse was safely tucked away in a cabinet by the bed. With the little battery power she had remaining in her phone, she left a message for the department chairman, Dr. Parr, explaining she had been injured and would not able to teach today.

Breakfast arrived next—damp toast and limp-looking scrambled eggs.

As she was poking at the food, she heard a light knock on the open door to her room. It was the pink-faced Detective Michelson, who walked in without waiting for her to reply. A slim Asian man accompanied him.

“Feeling any better?” Michelson asked her.

“Yes, much,” Phoebe said. As she scooted up to a seated position in the bed, she nearly yelped from how much her butt hurt.

“This is Detective Huang,” Michelson said, nodding toward his colleague. “As you can imagine, we’re both anxious to talk to you.”

“Of course,” Phoebe said. She hadn’t been forthcoming with the police previously, but she was now going to do everything she could to help. “Did you catch the killer yet?”

“Unfortunately, no, the person is still at large.”

Michelson took the chair closest to the bed, splaying open his legs; Huang dragged an extra chair across the room for himself.

“Why don’t you take us through everything—from the beginning,” Michelson said. Huang drew a notepad from his coat pocket and flipped the cover over. Both men reeked of fresh aftershave, and the smell, mixing with the gamy hospital odors, nearly made Phoebe retch.

“First, there’s one thing I need to tell you about Hutch,” Phoebe said. “He has a nephew in Allentown. Can someone contact him?”

“Yes, we’ve already been in touch with him,” Michelson said.

“And what about the dogs? Are they both okay?”

“The nephew has the little one. She’s fine.”

“But what about the retriever? I never saw her last night.”

Huang shot a glance at Michelson that wasn’t returned.

“Unfortunately,” Michelson said, “she was hit and killed by a car last night. She must have wandered out onto the road after Mr. Hutchinson was murdered.”

Phoebe lowered her head as she felt tears well in her eyes.

“Miss Hall,” Michelson urged. “We need to hear your story. It’s essential for our investigation.”

She obliged, taking them through every detail she could think of, knowing it all could be important. At the end she thought to add that the only vehicles she’d seen in the driveway were the Honda and the pickup truck, which she assumed were both Hutch’s since they’d been there on her previous visit. For the first time she wondered how the murderer had arrived at the cabin.

“And you can’t make a guess whether the person who chased you was a man or a woman?” Michelson asked.

Phoebe shook her head. “Last night I thought it must be a man because the head seemed so smooth—as if he was bald. But since then I’ve realized it could have been a cap or the hood of a sweatshirt.”

“Any revealing characteristics?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Not really. I’m not sure of the height because I couldn’t see where the ground began. My sense, though, is that the person wasn’t short. Or particularly large.”

Michelson glanced down at his notebook, thumbed back a few pages, and then looked back up.

“And what were you wearing last night?”

“Wearing?” Phoebe asked, puzzled.

“Yes,” Michelson answered bluntly, not bothering to elaborate.

“Jeans, a sweater . . . um, a wool peacoat. They’re probably in there.” Phoebe pointed her chin toward a closet. Huang jumped up, crossed the room, and opened the closet door. Everything was there and folded, except for her coat, which drooped forlornly from a hanger. She saw that the left sleeve had been sliced open by someone who’d treated her last night, but she had no memory of it.

“That’s it—no hat, gloves, scarf?” Michelson asked.

“Some gloves,” Phoebe said. What was this about, she wondered. “I assume they’re still in the coat pocket.”

“All right, let’s switch gears now,” Michelson said as Huang returned to his seat. “What prompted you to visit Mr. Hutchinson last night?”

His tone had suddenly shifted from courteous enough to plain blunt. Phoebe could feel her head start to throb again.

“I’m glad you got to that, because it may be relevant,” Phoebe said, though she knew Michelson would be ticked once she came clean. “As Wesley Hines may have told you, I spoke to him last week. I then shared what I’d learned with Mr. Hutchinson. He asked me to come over to discuss it.”

Michelson looked incredulous at this news. “It’s hard to imagine how a faculty member came to be pals with the former campus police chief,” he said, frowning.

“On behalf of Dr. Johns, I’ve been checking out some of the problems created by the River Street bars—and I ended up speaking to Mr. Hutchinson for background. He had interviewed Wesley last fall after the river incident, and we talked about whether it might be connected to the drownings. Hutch—er, Mr. Hutchinson, thought he’d found something important.”

“Are you saying Mr. Hutchinson was investigating?” Michelson said. His face seemed to get even pinker. She realized that his blue, blue eyes and hot pink skin were a color combo that definitely appeared in nature—pink-tinged clouds on the horizon at sunset, for instance—and yet it just didn’t work well on a human face.

“Not investigating per se,” Phoebe said. “Hutch was worried that he might have been wrong to dismiss Wesley’s story last year, and so he’d reviewed his old notes. Can you pass me my handbag?”

Huang retrieved it from the cabinet. With her right hand, Phoebe dug out Hutch’s notes and handed them to Michelson, glad she’d made a copy since she was sure she wasn’t getting these back. She didn’t have a copy of her own notes to give him but she saw no reason to bring it up. The exact same things had been underscored by Hutch in both sets of notes.

“He told me a lightbulb went off for him when he saw the notes again,” Phoebe said as Michelson scanned the pages intently. “He didn’t want to discuss it until we were face-to-face.”

“As far as you know, did he share these notes with anyone else?”

“He didn’t say. But of course, now I’m wondering if he had.”

“I’ll keep these, then,” Michelson said, folding the notes and tucking them into the inner pocket of his jacket. “And I’m going to tell you just this once, do you hear me, Ms. Hall? Let the police handle this business.”

“Yes, of course,” Phoebe said, trying to look contrite. “I never meant to interfere. I thought I was just helping the college.”

“There’s one other matter we need to discuss—these incidents at your home. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy to learn that the first ones hadn’t been reported to the police.”

Phoebe started to offer an explanation but bit her tongue. The less said the better, she knew. Besides, she wasn’t sure exactly how Ball had worded his excuse.

“Well, I’m glad you can investigate now,” she said. “I hope you can find someone to look at my kitchen. There’s still blood in my dishwasher, and the spoons are on the counter.”

They made arrangements, and Phoebe handed over her front door key, which Michelson promised to return as soon as possible. He also said he would have the police deliver her car to her house.

Michelson rose from his chair then; Huang followed suit just a second behind him, as if, like the perfect sidekick, he’d picked up an infinitesimal cue. As Michelson buttoned his coat, he trained his eyes directly on her.

“You live alone, correct, Ms. Hall?” he asked.

His tone was ominous, almost disapproving.

“I do,” she said. “Why?”

“You need to be very careful going forward. Do you understand?”

“Are you saying you think the Sixes might try to pay me another visit?”

“I have no idea. But there’s a chance that the person who murdered Mr. Hutchinson will.”