Desperate Measures (4 page)

He was watching her narrowly, and now he nodded with satisfaction. “That got to you, didn't it? You want to hear more? I've got more to say at the next PTA meeting!” He turned and stomped out again.

3

Mike Bakken's orchard
was across Opal Creek from Gus's property. Mike and Harvey Wilberson, the inspector, had covered it all and were on their way back to the inspector's truck, talking easily now, although Mike had been anxious before the inspection. He well knew that some folks would be wiped out by the blight.

“I guess we're all just a bunch of fools. Drought, bugs, now the blight. Turkey dropped their prices last year, undercut everyone, and I guess they'll do it again,” he said morosely. The country of Turkey and the state of Oregon produced most of the world's filberts.

“Well, you could always sell out and flip hamburgers at McDonald's,” the inspector commented. They were walking near the creek that sunny early evening, and it was pretty here; Gus's place across the creek was pretty, but Wilberson was tired of tramping around wet orchards. It was going on seven and he wanted to go home, eat supper, and sit with his feet up for hours. He cocked his head in a listening attitude. “What's that?”

They took a few more steps, then Mike heard it, too. “Sounds like a smoke alarm going off. Coming from Gus's place.” Neither of them moved for several seconds; the shrill blare of the alarm continued.

“We'd better have a look,” Mike said uneasily; he started to run toward Opal Creek. It wasn't more than a foot deep here, cold and swift, but wadable. He crossed carefully with Wilberson right behind him; the rocky creek bottom had slick places, and even an occasional deep hole hidden now by the muddy runoff from the recent rains. Normally the creek was as clear as bathwater.

At Gus's house he trotted around to the back door. He wouldn't have dreamed of going in the front dripping mud. The alarm grew louder and louder, so shrill it hurt his ears. At the kitchen door he hesitated only a moment, then pushed it open, and entered. Gus was on the floor, his head covered with blood, and a skillet on the stove was sending out clouds of smoke that stung his eyes. Wilberson ran across the kitchen and turned off the stove, then grabbed the smoke alarm off the wall and tossed it outside as Mike knelt at Gus's side.

Mike felt sick and slowly drew back, shaking. “He's dead.”

Graduation day was bedlam. Hilde knew that and accepted it, but knowing and accepting didn't make it easier to bear. Volunteers had been in and out all afternoon and evening making cookies and punch, decorating the cafeteria for the social hour that would follow the ceremonies. Hilde had gone home to rest, and take her medicine, but when she returned, things were more chaotic than ever. Nola was a wreck; she had heard a rumor that some of the boys planned to make rude gestures as the choir sang. And the band rehearsal had been a shambles, she said. They had forgotten everything they ever knew.

The auditorium was filling, but Hilde was in no hurry to leave her office, the only peaceful spot in the school; she was standing at her window when she saw a green sheriff's car pull in and stop in the restricted area, not in the parking lot. A deputy got out and spoke to one of the children, who raced into the building, and moments later Leona Marchand appeared, carrying a pitcher. Hilde watched as the deputy spoke to her.

Leona dropped the pitcher and ran to her car in the lot and took off so fast that the deputy couldn't catch her, restrain her. He got back in the cruiser and sped after her.

She was doing eighty-five at the worst curve before the waterfall on Old Opal Creek Road when she lost control. Her car smashed into a boulder, ricocheted, and hit another one, then flipped over and over down into Opal Creek.

She never regained consciousness, and died at 3:45 the following morning.

4

The only thing
Barbara Holloway hated about being a trial lawyer was panty hose. That June day when she entered her office a little after three, she was itching to shed them and put on her jeans and sandals, let her skin breathe the way nature intended.

Her secretary, Maria Velasquez, looked up inquiringly. “Is Jonelle all right?”

“She walked,” Barbara said. “But, Maria, do your pal a favor. Tell her to knock it off, buy the things she can't live without the way the rest of us do.” Jonelle was a petty shoplifter; everyone knew it-the prosecutor, the judge, the jury, Barbara—but this time she had been accused of lifting when she was innocent.

Maria beamed at her. “Three messages,” she said, handing Barbara a slip of paper with the callers' names and numbers, and her own notes about the time and purpose of the calls.

Walking on to her own office, Barbara glanced at the names. Two she dismissed, then considered the third: William Thaxton.

Will Thaxton was an attorney with a firm in Springfield, just across the Willamette River, or at least he had been the last she heard of him. She had known him most of her life; they had gone to high school together, where in the tenth grade he had shyly, almost fearfully, asked her to go out with him. At the time she had thought of him as having the neck of a giraffe with a monstrously big and sharp Adam's apple that seemed to have a life of its own, moving up and down spasmodically. She had said no. Reflecting on it now, she didn't think she had been cruel or even unkind, but he never spoke to her again. When their paths crossed, they nodded to each other politely.

She dialed his number, which apparently was a private number that didn't go through a switchboard. He answered.

“Barbara Holloway,” she said. “Is that you, Will?”

“Yes. I'm glad you weren't tied up longer; thanks for calling back so promptly. Barbara, I have a client who came to me for advice about a matter that's really a criminal case. He's with me now, in fact, and I recommended you. Are you free?” He sounded too eager, as if he was excited.

“Relatively,” she said. “You know how that goes.” Will was not a trial lawyer—she doubted he had ever argued a case—but he had the voice for it, rich and mellow; he could do it.

“Would it be possible for him to come around now? Within the next half hour or so?” Will asked.

It was not yet three-thirty. “That's fine. I'll be here the rest of the afternoon.”

“His name is Graham Minick, Dr. Minick. He's on his way. I'll give you a call in a day or so. Lunch, maybe?”

“That would be very nice,” she said, grinning. She assumed that whatever the criminal matter was with Dr. Minick, Will Thaxton did not want to be left out entirely. And now she wouldn't be able to change clothes, she thought, disgruntled, not with a doctor paying a house call.

Dr. Minick arrived in twenty minutes. Although he looked to be old, possibly older than her father, seventy-something, with thinning silver hair and a slight stoop, he was still a big man, tall and massive through the chest; when he shook hands with her, she was amazed at the size of his hands and the gentleness of his grasp. Probably he had to order custom-made shoes, she thought, finishing her survey of him. She motioned toward the chairs and sofa by a pretty coffee table. He was too big to fit comfortably in one of her clients' chairs by the desk. He put a bulging briefcase on the floor by his feet when he sat down.

“Did you read about the murder of Gus Marchand, and the accidental death of his wife?” Dr. Minick asked, getting to the point instantly.

“Yes, of course.” The newspapers had been full of the story.

“Are you involved?”

“Not directly. But I'm afraid a young friend of mine may become involved.”

He told her about Dolly and Arnold Feldman and their son, Alexander; how he came to meet Alexander; their move to Oregon. He told her about Xander, who flew away when he could no longer deal with things. Then he told her about Alex.

“He's a fine young man who had a hideous birth accident. He's very intelligent, and a gifted caricaturist and artist. Ten years ago he sent a comic strip to a local newspaper, unsigned, with a note saying if they liked it, they could use it. A few months later, when it had not appeared in print, he did it again, assuring the editor that he was the artist and was giving his permission for them to use his material. This time they printed the strips, with a notice about the mysterious creator. They were very well received, and Alex sent in more of them, along with some political cartoons. They began to run his material regularly, and always with a plea for him to come forward, sign a contract, be paid. If Alex had planned the mystery of the artist as an advertising ploy, it would have demonstrated genius at work, but he simply is determined to remain anonymous. The comic strip is attributed to Anom. The political cartoons are by X.”

He cleared his throat, and Barbara realized he had been talking for almost an hour. “Would you like coffee, tea? Something?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“Coffee would be fine,” he said. “You're a very good listener, Ms. Holloway, but a break would be welcome.”

Barbara went out to the reception room, where she found that Maria had already made coffee and prepared a tray. Maria looked very smug.

“I thought you might want something after such a long time,” she said. “I'll carry it if you'll open the door.”

Barbara glared at her. There had been a running battle ever since she hired Maria over who would make the coffee. Barbara insisted that she had hired a secretary, not a servant, and Maria insisted that she just wanted to help, and besides, her coffee was better than Barbara's. That was true, Barbara had to admit, although for God's sake, anyone could make a pot of coffee.

Seated across the table from Dr. Minick once more, she heard the rest of the history. Minick had gotten in touch with Will Thaxton, who had been delighted to share the secret and act as go-between. Contracts and money were all funneled through him to Dr. Minick and Alex. He had managed to preserve the boy's privacy. Now there was a New York agent who handled much of the business and had never met his client. He dealt with Will Thaxton also. And there was a website that, if anyone cared to trace it, would lead back to Thaxton.

“A few years ago Alex began to lead a group of adolescent boys in an after-school game of Dungeons and Dragons. You know the game?”

“A little. Role-playing, interactive, something like that.”

“Like that. Those boys had been rowdy, hard to manage, and he tamed them right down with his dungeon. He'd go in dressed like Darth Vader.” He paused to look at her, and she nodded. She knew Darth Vader. “But one of the boys was especially difficult to control, and when his character was killed, he wouldn't leave the game. He kept laughing and mocking Alex, who finally stood up, gathered his materials, and stalked out, with the boy laughing behind him. The following week when the game resumed, the same boy was there ready to pick up where he left off. Alex asked the group where their characters were, and they told him in a corridor or something, and he said the floor had just dropped out from under them, and that all of them had fallen to their deaths. Game over. Next bunch could move in. There was a waiting list, of course. Oh, they protested, but he wouldn't budge. Anyway, one of the boys whose character met an untimely death was Daniel Marchand. He told his father about the game, how unfairly he had been treated, and heaven only knows what else. Gus stormed the school the next day, ranting about devil worship, satanic rituals of raising the dead, calling up demons and devils, witchcraft….”

He helped himself to more coffee. “The game stopped there, of course. I don't know how Gus found out it was Alex behind that mask, but he did, and he began to rant about letting the devil enter the school where innocent children gathered.”

He paused, gazing at the wall behind Barbara. At the moment he looked ancient and tormented. “There were other incidents. I'll just relate one more and get on with it. He saw Alex driving me to the grocery one day, and the next time we were out with Alex at the wheel, we were stopped by a sheriff's deputy who said there was a report that an unlicensed driver was menacing others on the road. Alex had a license, as it happened, and there had been nothing in his driving to attract attention.”

He waved his hand, as if to clear the air. “That's enough history, but it gives you the background for the rest. Last week Gus showed up with a different deputy and accused Alex of spying on his daughter, of stalking her.” He drew in a long breath and leaned back in his chair, this time gazing at the ceiling as he continued. “Alex, physically, is what the girls would call a hunk, a beautifully built young man in his prime. An accusation of stalking a girl of thirteen would make the rounds and be believed by those who want to believe the worst, and there are quite a few of them.”

He told her about Rachel. “She lied about him, and there's no reason to believe that she'd recant. Covering her ass, isn't that the expression?”

“He said, she said,” Barbara commented with a shrug. “What else?”

“Gus topped it off by saying he planned to build forty houses on the lot adjoining mine. I don't believe he could, but it was meant to be a threat, and it worked as one.”

“And then Gus Marchand got himself murdered,” Barbara said. “I read about it, but tell me more.”

“They called 911, and then called me. I was just next door, and they said if there was a chance to save Gus, maybe I could do something. I couldn't. He was dead, the back of his head bashed in by a hammer that was still by the body. His wife was at the school, helping out with the graduation ceremony, and some idiot took it in his head to go tell her the news. She raced toward home, crashed her car, and died during the night.”

He regarded Barbara soberly for a moment, then said, “There hasn't been too much of a cry for justice, but there will be. Gus was not well liked, I imagine, but he was respected, a well-to-do farmer who was a leader in various crusades, outspoken and listened to, active in his church, in local organizations. And Leona, his wife, was loved by just about everyone who got to know her. She was a gentle, caring woman who did little things for folks on the side. There will be a growing cry, a scream of outrage for the killer to be brought to justice. And I suspect it will start soon.”