Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver. "Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"
"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..
"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera, took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"
"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.
"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right in the chest."
"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."
"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up there?"
"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."
"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later, he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it, and lowered it to the ground.
He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said. "Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down the slope.
"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said. After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"
"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first thing."
When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns carefully in the back seat.
"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said. "Check with you later, Wayne."
"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from there."
"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"
"That's for me to say."
Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."
"Hello, Stan."
"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach. "Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating the other things with one finger.
"She'll be right over," the deputy said.
"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable, Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife?"
"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better from you."
"Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."
The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.
"Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."
Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."
"Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.
"Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice answered.
"This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"
"Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already, and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.
"I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me feel like hell."
"It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."
The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the back. Eileen, bring your book."
In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right, the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning," Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."
Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again. About six o'clock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement, three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.
"Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"
"Must of stole it somewhere."
"Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in his hand? Or else he can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand, pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun, or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction, Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."
"You accusing me of something, Wayne?"
"No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone, and you're a liar."
Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."
"That's right."
Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and left the room.
"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."
"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "
"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."
"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."
"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone with you, he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car, but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation, even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he didn't know how wrong.