The Deader the Better (10 page)

I said. “That explains why the impact points are so much higher
up in the back of the house than in the front.”

“At least three different calibers,” she said. “Probably
more.”

I took her by the arm and led her around to the back of the house.
Walked her down to the far end, to the gray electrical service box
bolted to the back of the house. In modern homes the service panel is
in the laundry room or the garage. On old handmade houses, they just
cut a hole in a wall and nailed the box over it.

The rectangular steel box had been torn to pieces by gunfire. The
door had been blown completely off and lay pretzeled in the high
grass at our feet. The interior section where the plastic circuit
breakers had been was completely gone, leaving only a
dangerous-looking thicket of black and white wires sticking out like
quills.

“I’m thinking the first salvo or three went right here,” I
said. “Knock the power out. Put ’em in the dark. Scare the hell
out of them.”

I saw her shiver. She’d done it a couple of times since we’d
come sliding to a stop in the driveway, but she’d never lost her
cool. Not when I’d noticed the shot-out windows. Not even as we’d
crept from room to room looking for bodies. She looked up the hill at
the tree line. “Pretty good shooting.”

She was used to more urban forms of mayhem. Up close and personal.
Uzis and Saturday night specials, where hitting something at a
distance greater than a hundred feet was pure dumb luck.

“Deer rifles,” I said. “Telescopic sights. In a place like
this, everybody over the age of ten can make that shot.”

“So…you think they were home when it happened?”

I thought it over. “Hard to tell,” I said. “If I had to
guess, I’d say yes.”

“There’s no other explanation for the fire extinguisher,”

she said. “If J.D. or Claudia didn’t put out the fire, who
did? The shooters?”

Smart girl. Always was.

“Yeah,” I said. “And because I think whoever did this was
trying to scare the hell out of them rather than kill them. And if
that’s what you’ve got in mind, you make sure they’re home
before you start.”

“Why just trying to scare them?”

I gestured toward the service panel. “’Cause of that,” I
said.

“I mean…what’s the point of all the marksmanship? What does
it matter whether or not they have lights? If you want’em dead, you
sneak down, kick the door in and shoot all four of them in their
sleep.”

I could see she wasn’t convinced, so I kept at it. “Picture
yourself in the cabin when the shooting starts. You’ve got two
little kids sleeping in the next room. What do you do?”

“I go for the kids,” she said immediately.

“What then?”

No hesitation. “I take the children and run for cover.”

“Which is where?”

“I don’t understand.”

I bobbed my head at the cabin. “Where in there could you find
shelter?”

She looked over her shoulder at the cabin; I saw the light bulb go
on. She bobbed her eyebrows. “It’s a log cabin. Nothing is going
to penetrate the logs. Shelter is everywhere except right in front of
the windows.”

“That’s how I see it,” I said. “They take their time…pump
a dozen rounds into the electric service, create a little chaos, give
the folks inside time to hunker down and then they start laying down
a field of gunfire while their buddy sets the other end on fire.”

“The firebug must have had a lot of faith in his friends to come
down here with all that lead flying around.”

She had a point. If it came down as I was pretty sure it had,
whoever had crept down to start the fire either had very big balls or
a very small brain.

“I agree with you,” she said. “I think they left on their
own. I checked the closets and the drawers and the bathroom.
Everything personal is gone. There isn’t so much as a toothbrush or
a diaper anywhere in there. Adam’s pottytraining seat is gone. They
may have left in a hurry, but I feel certain they left.”

Part of me knew what we were saying made sense, but another part
knew how badly we wanted the family to be okay and how having such a
personal stake in something colors the judgment. I closed my eyes and
thought it through again.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’d say we go talk to the local law.”

“Great minds think alike,” she said and headed for the car. I
hoped we were right. I hoped it had come down the way we imagined.
That, scared stiff, they’d packed their tents in the dead of night
and stolen away. Maybe over to his parents’place. Normally I could
have sold myself the story, but I’d already seriously
underestimated the situation once. If I was wrong this time…Naaah…not
twice in a row.

“MR. SPRINGER IS DEAD.” HE SAID THE WORDS IN A NEUTRALvoice.
No “I’m afraid to say” or “I’m sorry to report.” Just the
fact. Sheriff Nathan Hand was fifty maybe. Narrow shoulders and no
gut. Shaven smooth, his narrow face looked like it’d fit through
the mail slot. His uniform was perfectly pressed and fit him
precisely.

Rebecca and I spoke simultaneously. She asked, “How?”

I asked, “Where?”

He pretended to draw it from memory. “Let’s see, if I
recall…it was two weeks ago tomorrow that…” He turned to the
deputy. “I am right about that, aren’t I, Harlan? It was two
weeks ago tomorrow that we had the big fire over on West River.”

The deputy’s name tag read: HARLAN R. SPOTS, DEPUTY, STEVENS
FALLS, WASHINGTON. Spots had narrow little eyes, thick red lips and
an ass so big it wobbled when he walked. I know because the minute
we’d told him what we wanted, he’d said we’d need to talk to
Sheriff Hand and had wobbled off to find him.

“Yes, sir, I believe you are correct,” he said in a wheezing
tenor.

I had the feeling that if Hand had asked Spots to verify the
presence of aliens in our midst, he’d have gotten much the same
response.

“Terrible car accident,” Hand said. “Just terrible.”

She frowned. “You said something about a fire?”

For a second I thought he was going to pat her hand. Instead, he
gave her a patronizing smile and a tone of voice that said she
shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about something so tawdry.
He put both elbows on the counter and leaned toward her.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “More terrible than a lady like you
could possibly imagine.” Bad move. She tossed a business card onto
the desk between them.

“I wouldn’t count on that, Sheriff,” she said. “People in
my line of work tend to lead rich fantasy lives.”

Hand ran his eyes over the card once and then slid it over to
Spots. His lips moved as he read. “Well, well…” Hand said.

“The fire?” she prodded.

He tried to keep the question casual, but something in his
demeanor had changed. No more Mr. Nice Guy funnin’ with the
tourists. Suddenly the cop.

“So…you’re here in an official capacity, then?”

“I’m here to find out what happened to Mr. Springer,” she
snapped.

Not liking what he was getting from Rebecca, he turned his
attention my way.

“And you?”

“I’m a friend of the doc’s.” I scribbled my cell phone
number on the back and then handed him my card. Same deal, a quick
robo-scan and over to Spots. I watched as the deputy sounded out
Investigations
. Hand stood up straight, took a hitch in his
belt.

“Harlan, get me the yard keys,” he said. Hand walked to the
far end of the counter, lifted the gate and came around toward us.
Deputy Spots slapped a ring of keys into the sheriff’s outstretched
palm. Unlike his deputy, Nathan Hand walked with a martial economy of
motion. He strode on past us and pulled open the door. “After you,”

he said.

He led us around the west side of the building, where a black gate
on rubber wheels spanned the drive. Behind the gate, three police
cruisers. Two five-year-old Chevy Citations. Stevens Falls logo on
the doors. One brand-new Crown Victoria, same logo but with the word
SHERIFF painted above it in gold.

Hand rolled back the gate. Behind us, a passing car tooted its
horn. Hand waved without looking. He pulled the gate behind us but
didn’t bother with the chain and lock. We followed him along the
length of the building. Beige cinder block with a single ground-level
window about halfway down. Blinds tightly drawn. Air conditioner.
Sheriff Hand’s office, I was willing to bet.

When he stopped and turned back our way, I sensed he’d regained
some of his bravado. “Now, normally,” he began, “I’d feel
compelled to warn you all”—he stepped aside and beckoned us
forward—“but with you all being in the law enforcement field and
all…”

It was one of those wrecks that freezes your innards. Reminds you
of those times when you’ve been stuck on the freeway for hours and
hours, ranting, raving, cursing your fate and damning every other
driver on the road, especially the nitwit son of a bitch who caused
this particular logjam, and then finally you see the flashing lights
up ahead, you’re about to make your escape when you look over on
the shoulder and see the wreck that caused all this, and
instinctively something in your gut knows that nobody, no living
creature could possibly have walked away alive. And you drive the
rest of the way home wondering about yourself. Again.

What had once been a stylish Subaru Outback had been reduced to
its metal parts, and most of those were mangled. The front end was
pushed in so far the floorboards had buckled. The roof was peeled
back, the edges jagged and uneven, like the track of an old-fashioned
can opener. Not a shred of rubber or plastic, or fabric, or glass, or
for that matter any of the god knows how many other substances it
takes to make a car. Nothing remained but soot covered metal. I don’t
know what Rebecca was thinking, but Sheriff Hand read my mind.

“No way of telling whether the gas tank exploded and then set
off the ten gallons of unleaded he had in the car with him, or
whether it was the other way around.”

“Where exactly did this happen?” I asked. He pointed east.
“You know the bridge back there?” I said I did. “Three-point-nine
miles from the bridge. A steep little gully leading down to Taylor
Creek. You could see the smoke all the way to town.”

“Why would he have ten gallons of gas in the car with him?” I
asked.

Rebecca moved over to the side of the wreck and was moving around
it slowly.

“No idea,” Hand said. “His insurance company had that same
question. We both asked his missus, but she didn’t know, either.”

Rebecca stopped. “Where’s Mrs. Springer now?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” he said. “She and the kids came in to
make the arrangements for the body, then a couple of days later I
went out and served her.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “I
certainly hated to have to do that. What with her just losing her
husband and it being the holiday season and all.”

If he was looking for somebody to feel sorry for him, he’d
fallen in with the wrong crowd. “Served her with what?” I asked.

“Eviction,” he said. “Had thirty days to pack up and
vacate.”

“On what grounds?” Rebecca demanded.

“Taxes,” he said. “Something to do with it being a
homestead.”

I walked over to the car carcass and looked into the black hole
that had once been the hatchback. “To tell you the truth,” Hand
said, “I been kinda worried about the Springer family myself.”

I felt Rebecca stiffen. “Why’s that?” I asked. He wiped his
forehead with his sleeve. “About a week later, I sent two of my
deputies out to remind her—Bobby and Roy, three weeks to go now—and
they found the place all shot up and the family gone. They said it
didn’t seem like anyone was present when the shooting happened.
Naturally I hustled out there myself.” Naturally.

Sitting on top of the rim that used to hold the spare tire was the
galvanized top of a five-gallon gas can. The part with the flip-up
handle and the screw-off top.

“No sign of any injury to anyone—”

I interrupted him. “What kind of progress have you made at
finding out who it was shot the place up?”

He bristled. Didn’t like being questioned about his work.
Probably couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. Rebecca
had finished her circumnavigation of the car and was back at my side.
Hand folded his arms across his chest.

“Mr.…er…a…”

I helped him. “Waterman.”

“Mr. Waterman…I don’t know how much you know about hunting
and outdoorsy activities”—I tried to look rugged—“but we’re
right in the middle of deer season around here. At any given moment,
I’ve got hundreds and hundreds of people walking around in the
woods with rifles and, as if that isn’t bad enough, it just so
happens that bunches of those people with rifles have absolutely no
use whatsoever for the late Mr. J.D. Springer.”

I wanted to hear what he’d say. “Why was that?” I asked. He
ran it by me pretty much the way I’d heard it before. I only
stopped him once, and that was early on. He was talking about how
pissed off everybody was when Mr. Bendixon sold the property to an
outsider. “Of course, feelings just magnified when it turned out
he’d cheated the old man.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Cheated the old man how?”

“On the price,” he said. “You can look it up down at the
clerk’s office. It’s a matter of public record. Springer paid one
hundred thousand dollars for thirty-five acres. The figures are right
there in black and white.”

Rebecca piped in. “So?”

“So…a year ago the county offered him the better part of
three.” He waved a hand. “Two hundred ninety-something anyway.
That’s also a matter of public record.” I opened my mouth to
speak, but he beat me to it. “I’ve been told that half a dozen
private parties offered him even more than that over the past couple
of years. Check with the realtors, they’ll tell you.”

“How is J.D. supposed to have pulled that off?”