The golf course was farther from town than he’d expected, but maybe that was because he was in such a hurry. Stubbs was less than half an hour ahead of him. But because of the phone call, Wells was forewarned.
Distances are deceiving on narrow blacktop country roads. The second right was for ever after the first left, and the next left was across the rim of the world in Asia some place. Then at last he was on Reardon Road, and he had to crawl to be sure of reading the names on the mailboxes. He spotted Wells’s name at last, and pulled the Chewy off the road. He couldn’t see the black Lincoln parked anywhere, so Stubbs must have just blundered on in, driving the car.
Parker got out of the Chewy, locked it, and walked down the private road among the trees, He came around a turn and there was the Lincoln, parked, blocking the road. He took the Sauer out and moved up slowly, but the car was empty. He went beyond it, saw the house, and cut away to the right into the woods.
If Stubbs had any sense, he was working his way around through the woods to the back of the house. Or he’d done it already. There were lights on in the house and Parker caught occasional glimpses of them through the trees. He kept bearing right, until he knew he was beyond the house, and then he angled to the left around it.
All of a sudden there was blacktop in front of him, and he was looking at the three-car garage. He cursed under his breath and took a backward step, and then he heard the shot to his left. He rushed out to the blacktop and looked down to the left and saw Stubbs there, in the evening gloom, folding forward into himself. Beyond Stubbs was another man, distinguished-looking and white-haired, holding a gun. Wells looked past Stubbs and saw Parker, and his eyes widened as the gun came up, ready for another shot.
Don’t kill him yet, Parker told himself, and don’t ruin his right hand. He fired low, and the bullet shattered Wells’s ankle. Wells made a strange high-pitch “Aaahh”, and pitched forward on to the blacktop. The gun skittered away and stopped next to Stubbs’s ear.
Parker checked Stubbs first, and he was dead. Then he checked Wells, who was unconscious. He ripped the sleeve from Wells’s shirt and made a hasty tourniquet around Wells’s leg to keep all the blood from pumping out through the ankle. Then, holding the Sauer again, he trotted across the blacktop and into the house.
It was a fine old house; the original owners had probably been Tories.
Parker went from room to room, switching on the lights, leaving them on in his wake. The light gleamed on polished mahogany and brass, on rich flooring and rich woodwork, on muted oil paintings and shelves of books.
In the kitchen, the light was fluorescent, and shone on porcelain and stainless steel and formica. Parker went upstairs and prowled all the rooms, and then went down into the basement, where he found the servants’ quarters. But there was no one in the house.
Finally he went back outside, leaving the house ablaze with light. Outside it was fully night. Parker looked at the windows on the second storey of the garage, but they were uncurtained except for a film of dust. He went across the blacktop to where the two men were lying, and found Wells crawling towards Stubbs and the gun.
Parker kicked him on the bad ankle, and he fainted again. Then Parker picked him up and carried him into the house and dropped him on the leather sofa in the living-room. He’d never seen a leather sofa before; it must have cost around a thousand.
When Wells came to again, Parker was sitting in a chair near the sofa, the Sauer held easy in his lap. Wells blinked in the light, and whispered, “My leg. My leg.”
“I know you killed Stubbs. Did you kill Dr Adler, too?”
“My leg,” Wells whispered.
Parker grimaced. He’d have to start with an easier question. “Where are the servants?”
Wells closed his eyes. “I need a doctor.”
“Answers first.”
“I gave them the evening off.”
Parker nodded. “So there’d be no witnesses when you killed Stubbs? You killed Dr Adler, too?”
“My leg. I need a doctor, I can’t stand the pain.”
“Answers first. You killed Dr Adler?”
“Yes! Yes, you knew that already.”
“I wanted to hear it.” Parker got to his feet and walked out of the room.
Behind him, Wells cried, “For the love of God, I need a doctor!”
Parker remembered a study. He found it and searched through the desk drawers till he found pen and paper. On the way back he passed through the music room and took down an LP in its jacket to write on.
Wells was still on the sofa, his eyes closed. When Parker came in he opened them. “Did you call a doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“The pain, man.”
“That’s nothing.” Parker lifted Wells to a sitting position, the bad leg straight out in front of him, heel on the floor. Then he loosened the tourniquet. “Watch the ankle.”
Wells watched, and saw the blood suddenly spurt. It had practically stopped before, and started to coagulate, but when the tourniquet was released the clot broke down. Wells groaned, and reached for the tourniquet.
Parker slapped his hand away. “You’ve got something to write first.” He gave Wells the LP and the paper and the pen. “Write how you killed Dr Adler and Stubbs.”
“I’m too weak! I’m losing blood!”
“You could die,” Parker said, “if you waste time arguing.”
Wells’s hands were shaking, but he managed to write: “I leaned in the window from the porch, and shot Dr Adler as he was sitting at his desk. I fired four times. I waited in the woods for–-“
He paused and looked up. “What was the chauffeur’s name?”
“Stubbs. With two b’s.”
” — Stubbs and shot him when he came into the open in front of my house.”
Parker read over his shoulder. “Sign it.”
“Charles F. Wells.”
“The other name, too.”
“C. Frederick Wallerbaugh.”
“Fine.”
Parker took the confession away so no blood would get on it, and then fired the Sauer once. The bullet caught Wells in the heart.
Parker put the Sauer away under his jacket and waved the confession in the air till the ink dried. The he folded it up and put it in his pocket, and went out to the kitchen to find a knife.
Chapter 6
IT TOOK him only three days to drive to Lincoln, because he was on turnpikes most of the way. They’d given him a Pontiac instead of a Chevrolet for the one-way rental from New York to Lincoln, and it was just old enough to be broken in, so he made good time. He took only one side trip, to pick up the typewriter case full of money from the motel outside Pittsburgh.
It was just eleven o’clock Thursday morning when he drove up to the sanitarium building. In the four days since he’d seen it, the further deterioration in the place was visible. It was falling apart fast, in the hands of May and her two men, and they’d probably abandon it before winter.
As Parker got out of the car, carrying the overnight bag, Lennie and Blue came out on to the porch and stood looking at him. Blue’s left arm was in a sling, and his colour wasn’t good. They both seemed surprised to see him.
Parker came up on to the porch. “Where’s May?”
Lennie blinked. “We didn’t expect to see you no more.”
Blue said, “Where’s Stubbs?” His yapping voice was weaker than before, but still belligerent.
“May first,” Parker said.
“Here I am.”
Parker looked past the two men and saw May in the semi-darkness just inside the doorway. She was glaring at him, and holding an old Colt Peacemaker in both hands, her right hand holding the grip and the trigger and her left hand holding the barrel.
“You’ll burn your hand off, you shoot that gun when you’re holding it that way. And break a wrist while you’re at it.”
“Don’t you worry none about me,” she said. “What are you doing back here?”