The Suspect - L R Wright (20 page)

He knew he'd hear George when he came home. He'd hear
the front door open and close, and then light would flood into the
garden from the kitchen; he was pretty sure George would fix himself
some tea or some lemonade or something before he went to bed.

The moon shone fitfully from behind the passing
clouds. The tide was going out; there was a narrow strip of hard wet
sand between the water and the rocky beach. The sound of the sea
lapping at the land was hypnotic, soothing. He heard a bird, maybe
crying out from a dream; a dog barking, from far away; and sometimes
a little whisper from George's garden, as a breeze passed through it.

Eventually Alberg became aware of a new sound. He
realized that it was the sound of oars.

He stood up and went down the lawn toward the beach.

The slap of the oars against the water was uneven;
there wasn't a great deal of strength behind it; the oars penetrated
shallowly and often seemed only to shudder against the surface of the
water. Alberg stared out at the sea and finally almost dead ahead saw
a black shape hunched over in a small rowboat, its back to the shore.
The shape stopped to rest, leaning on the oars. Then it bent again to
its rowing, weak and strained; the oars lifted, struck the water,
were dragged ineffectually back. The. moon suddenly poured white
light from a hole in the clouds and, like an actor stepping into a
spotlight, George Wilcox rowed his small boat out of the darkness and
into its radiant trail. Alberg watched without moving as slowly the
old man traversed the wide streak of silver washed upon the water. He
rowed laboriously, awkwardly, with an immense and terrifying dignity,
moonlight clothing him and his boat in a cool silver glow.

"
You crafty old bugger," Alberg whispered.

By the time George reached the rocky beach, the moon
was once more veiled. Alberg waited until the bow of the rowboat
ground upon sand, and George climbed wearily over the side. As he
reached for the rope, trying to beach the rowboat, Alberg waded
through the water toward him.

George stared at him, hanging on to the edge of the
boat.

Alberg reached past him and grabbed the rope. George
let go, and Alberg pulled the boat across the beach and up onto the
lawn, next to the toolshed. He got George's damp pea jacket from the
bottom of the boat and waited for George to slosh through the water
and over the rocks and into his back yard. "What were you doing
out there at this time of night, George?” said Alberg,
eonversationally. He held out the jacket, and George took it. The old
man was bent over and hobbling. "Where'd you get the boat? It's
your friend Carlyle's boat, isn't it?”

"
It's mine, now,” said George. "Or so you
people tell me. Everything's mine, now; Isn't that what you said?”

"
Not quite yet, George. We have to sort out the
business of the homicide, first. Keep the crime scene sealed, and all
that. There's a corporal on duty at the house, you know. You didn't
know that? Yeah, he's there. Must spend all his time around front.
I'll have to have a word with him."

"
You do that,” said George.

"
No, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait
awhile before you stake your claim to Carlyle's loot, George. Taking
his boat—that could get you into trouble.”

"
The corporal and I, we're in trouble together,
that's the way I figure it,” said George. He began shuffling toward
his back door. Alberg followed.

"
Do you own a blue sweater, George, by any
chanee?”

"
I used to, policeman. I don't any more,"
said George.

"
You must be worn out, George, after all that
rowing. You rowed quite a distance, too, I guess. Had to make sure
the water was deep enough.”

George unlocked the door and opened it and reached
inside to turn on the kitchen light. "I don't lmow what the hell
you're talking about.” He turned around and grasped the doorway, a
hand on either side, holding himself up. His face was gray with
exhaustion. His pants and shoes were soaked and dripped seawater onto
his kitchen floor.

"
You couldn't just dump them anywhere,” said
Alberg. "It you didn't take them far enough out they'd probably
get washed up on somebody's beach, right?”

"Good night," said George, and made to
close the door. Alberg held it open. "I'm real sorry about this,
George," he said softly. "I really am."

"
Good night," said George, and tried again
to close the door.

"You should have gotten rid of them right away,"
said Alberg.

"
I have to look for them, now. Now that I know
they're out there, I have to look for them. And I'm going to find
them.”

"
I don't know what the hell you're talking
about. Look for what? book for them, go ahead, look for anything you
damn feel like looking for, just let me get to bed."

"In a minute," said Alberg, still holding
the door open.

"
I think you should know what I'm going to do.
First I'll send out the divers. You know we've got a couple of
divers, don't you?"

George looked at him grimly, shoulders hunched, white
hair disheveled, pants still dripping. He was trembling from cold and
tiredness.

"They might find them, they might not,"
said Alberg. "Depends on how far out you managed to get. If they
don't, then I call in the sea search people from Vancouver. Now this
is a very special outfit, George. They do lots of work for us.
They've got a big boat with all kinds of special gizmos on board."

"
I don't give a good goddamn for your gizmos. I
don't know what the hell you're babbling about. I go out for a little
row, I go too far for my own good, I come back wrecked, all I want to
do is get to bed, you babble on to me about gizmos. Go away.” He
pulled again, weakly, at the door which Alberg continued to hold
open.

"
They've got underwater cameras, and side-scan
sonar, and believe me, George—” He leaned closer to the old man,
who pulled away, and whispered, "There is nothing those guys
can't find.
Nothing
.”
He shook his head in admiration. "They've found something as
small as an engagement ring, George, in two hundred feet of water. Do
you think they won't be able to locate a couple of World War Two
shell casings?”

George looked steadily at Alberg. He stood as
straight as his screaming shoulders would allow. "Are you trying
to scare me?"

Alberg let go of the door and stepped back. "I
thought there might be something you'd like to tell me, Mr. Wilcox."

"
You thought wrong, sonny. I've got nothing to
say to you. Nothing.” He closed the door, slowly and quietly.

Alberg went around to the front of the house and got
into his car. He wasn't sure how he felt. He could identify several
things—frustration, exhilaration, excitement, resolution—but
there were other things shuffling uneasily around inside his brain
that he was less anxious to put a name to.

He drove directly to the detachment office, where he
called the divers and told them to meet him at the police boat as
soon as the sun was up.
 

CHAPTER 21

When George awoke the next morning, one week after
the murder, he felt like something washed up by the tide, scoured and
bloated. His aches were so deep, so significant, that for several
minutes he didn't even try to move. But he had to go to the bathroom.
He tempted to push himself up with his elbows, but it was too
painful. He seriously considered, then, relieving himself right there
in his bed. Incontinence, though—that was the end, that was death.

He eventually got himself into a sitting position on
the edge of the bed. The aches were concentrated in his shoulders,
the back of his neck, his hands, and his thighs. It was obviously
important to be active today. Maybe by nightfall the pain would have
subsided into stiffness. He groaned as he shoved himself off the bed
with arms that trembled. He staggered, shoulders hunched and knees
bent, into the bathroom.

He had dreamed not of shell casings or Mounties,
bloodied rugs or jail. He had dreamed of rowing, and of the
fraudulent sea, which in his dream had transformed itself from the
calm blue splendor of the last weeks into titanic fury. He flailed at
it with useless oars, clung tight to his small rowboat, and the sea
flung him from wavetop to wavetop, into chasm after chasm, until
finally it hurled him onto a small island which at first seemed to be
deserted, and then he saw Carlyle sitting on a big rock outside a log
cabin. Carlyle was puffing on a pipe and singing "When the
Saints Go Matching In," and on a clothesline behind him hung a
row of salmon, attached to the line with wooden clothespins, and they
were flashing and flipping in the sun, still alive.

George hobbled into the kitchen to make coffee. He
had spooned decaffeinated granules into a cup and was sitting in his
chair, hands on his knees, waiting for the kettle to boil, when he
became aware of faint shouts.

From his window he saw the R.C.M.P. boat out on the
water, about a hundred feet offshore. There were two men on board who
appeared to be staring down at the sea. Then a black shiny figure
popped out of the water slick as a seal, and George knew the divers
were at work.

The clothes he had worn last night were still in a
heap on his bedroom floor.

It was cloudy today, as he had expected.

He took the kettle off the stove, put on an old hat,
and went painfully out into his garden. He watered the flowers and
the vegetables. He did some weeding. The R.C.M.P. boat moved slightly
farther out, stopping somewhat north of George's beach.

He mixed up a batch of insecticidal soap and washed
the aphids from his rosebushes. He thought he ought to mow his small
lawn, and the one in front, too, but his shoulders hurt too much.

After an hour or so the boat moved slowly southward,
past his beach, and anchored there; meanwhile George got a small pair
of clippers from his toolshed and deadheaded the roses ; and the
marigolds. Then he picked some peas and took them into the kitchen.
While he was inside, he took three aspirin. When he went out again he
saw the divers climb aboard the R.C.M.P. boat and watched it move
quickly across the water and disappear around the spit.

George sat down heavily in his canvas chair. It was
still hot, despite the cloud cover.

He heard it long before he saw it. He didn't
recognize the sound of it., but knew before it hove into view what it
must be. And then it appeared, cutting a frothy swath through the
steel-gray sea, a twenty-five-foot aluminum boat with a peculiar
radarlike structure mounted on its deck. George watched it come to a
stop about two hundred feet from shore, almost directly out from his
beach. There were two men on board. He watched them fiddling with
something; then he thought he saw them lower something overboard.

George stood up quickly.
He had to bend over, pressing his hands against his thighs, until the
pain there diminished. He went almost blindly through his house and
out the front door and, once on the road, turned himself toward
Sechelt. He began to walk along the dusty shoulder. He was
shuddering, despite the warmth of the day, and in his chest was a
great lump which he banged at with an ineffectual fist.

* * *

"You have been seen,” said Phyllis Dempter,
"on the beach, with a Mountie. Practically holding hands, I'm
told.” She was lounging against the counter, behind which Cassandra
sat labeling books for the reserve shelf. "When did all this
begin? Did you get yourself arrested? Is that how it started?”

"
Nothing has started, Phyllis,” said
Cassandra. She taped a label marked VANDERBERG on a copy of James
Michener's Space. "We've had lunch, and we went for a walk on
the beach. No big deal, believe me."

"
Then why is your face pink?” said Phyllis.
She began to laugh.

"
My face is pink because you're embarrassing me.
This is no place for a discussion of my personal life.” Stephen
King's Pet Cemetery was put aside for Mrs. Callihoo, a widow who
operated a day-care center in the basement of the United Church.
"Besides,” said Cassandra, "I blush easily.”

"No, really," said Phyllis, leaning farther
across the counter. "Te1l me. How did you meet him? It couldn't
have been your ad. Could it?" She looked intently at Cassandra.
"You mean to say it was? It was the ad?"

"
Shut up, Phyllis. We're not alone in here."
Behind the partition separating the counter from a large work area, a
volunteer was sorting returned books. "I told you,” said
Phyllis complacently. She stood up and tucked her bright red shirt
smoothly into her jeans. "My dad's having a hell of a good time
through the ads. I told you something would come of it eventually.
When do I get to meet him?”

Cassandra wrote FRATINO on a label and affixed it to
Cold Heaven, by Brian Moore. "I don't even know whether I'm
going to see him again," she said. "I'm thinking about
putting in another ad.”

"Liar," said Phyllis. She picked up her
purse and the two books she'd checked out. "But that's okay. Be
closemouthed. It's typical. You jabber away a mile a minute, but
never about anything important. You give yourself away, you know,
Cassie."