Wicked Fix (27 page)

we shot from the dock, then turned, parallel to the

shore. His energy struck me as I watched him work the

paddle, turning his face into the sunshine and basking

in it, moving the craft without any visible effort.

"Now," he invited. "The reason that you are here

is ..."

"Was he blackmailing you? Reuben?"

Heywood kept paddling. "Yes. The accusation was

false. But I was frightened. I wish I hadn't been. Still, I

was."

"Marcus didn't want to tell me. He seemed quite

frantic."

"Marcus is very protective of me."

I could see both of Heywood's hands from where I

sat. There was no mark on either of them.

But there wouldn't have to be. As he'd said, Marcus

was very protective.

"And the other night? When he came to Heddlepenny

House, was Reuben up to his old tricks? Or

was it really, as Marcus says, a pastoral visit?"

He tipped his head slightly, in apparent contrition.

"I told Marcus that so he wouldn't worry. Tate wanted

money."

"Surely that didn't surprise you?"

His shoulders moved in a sigh. "I had hoped that

my tactic with Reuben Tate had finally borne fruit. But

I was disappointed."

"What tactic?"

A little silence. Then: "I'm an old man. I don't care

what people say anymore. Nor did I ever, really. But

Marcus--he cares very much."

Not an answer. I began thinking that Heywood

Sondergard, for all the simple, beaming goodness of his

public persona, might be a slick character.

He dipped the paddle again. "Still, there's little

enough love in the world as it is. I won't condemn any

variety of it, even by denying a story that isn't true.

Not anymore."

"But Marcus might. For your sake or his."

He feathered the paddle expertly, replied with subtle

skill. "Marcus is a young man. From my point of

view, anyway. He has never had much to do with

women at any time in his life. Except, of course, with

his mother."

Suggesting, I thought, that Marcus could have been

the actual blackmail target instead of Heywood. But

not admitting it. Blowing smoke at me was what he

was doing. On the shore a deer drank placidly: young

male, fuzzy nubs of antlers.

"He has a woman friend now," Heywood went

on. "Lovely woman. Lives in Portland. But I fear she

may be growing impatient. We all feel time passing as

we get older."

"Why don't you tell him to go?"

If you know he's ruining his chances, I meant.

Heywood heard the implied criticism, replied easily

to it.

"It's not that simple. Marcus has a sense of duty.

And what would he do? There aren't," he added

gently, "a lot of employment opportunities for a man

who has spent his whole adult life as an itinerant Bible

thumper, banjo player, and freelance do-gooder."

Correct; I just hadn't thought of it.

"No, if I wanted to send Marcus out into the

world without me, I should have started thirty years

ago. As it is, he's stuck with me until I die."

The thought hung in the bright air. "And then?"

The kayak shot skimmingly on the water. "I made

provision," he admitted, "once I realized how I'd crippled

the boy. Without me there's no musical duo, and

Marcus is no solo artist, he knows that. Even that

small source of income will be closed to him when I'm

gone. But ..."

He turned the kayak back toward shore. "I arranged

a sizable life-insurance benefit. He'll land on his

feet."

The water was crystalline, minnows flashing as we

went over them. "And," he added, "despite the lady's

impatience, I believe she thinks half a million--and

Marcus, of course--are worth the wait."

"Practical move," I said, considering it with my

financial head. A stake like that, properly invested, was

just about right. Interesting too the way he'd dangled

diversionary bait in front of me, so that suddenly we

were talking about Marcus instead of about Reuben. I

aimed my next question carefully.

"Do you think he resents it? Marcus, I mean.

That you acted in certain ways when he was young,

and that's turned out to have influenced his whole

life?"

But not carefully enough. His answering laugh was

hearty and knowing. "You're asking whether my son is

psychologically damaged enough to commit a murder

in a particularly hideous fashion?"

That was fair. "Actually, yes."

"Well, he's not. Marcus couldn't kill anyone. Take

it from a man who really knows him. But why don't

you suspect me? Too old?"

Suddenly I liked the Reverend Sondergard a lot despite

the way he was evading me, or maybe even because

of it. He was smart, a clever talker, impossible to

offend, and no fool. Because you don't have a wound

on your hand, I wanted to tell him.

But Marcus did have. Or might have; I still didn't

know what the mark was.

"I'm just trying to understand it all," I said. "I

know Reuben threatened you. It was you, not Marcus?

Since you raised the question, really; I want to be absolutely

clear about it."

A nod. "It was me."

"And that drove you out of town. You don't care

anymore, but Marcus still wants it kept quiet. You

both think Reuben had to do with the death of your

wife, but neither of you can prove it. And you still

haven't explained what you meant about the tactic you

mentioned, why you and Reuben kept ending up in the

same places."

Another silence, longer. "It's true that when I decided

to leave back then, he threatened to follow."

Suddenly I understood. "So the hunter became the

hunted. I suppose you had a connection here at the

post office, to keep you current of his forwarding address."

Wade had done it too, but he had stopped there.

Going on with it was a brilliant turnabout, the one

thing Tate would never have expected. To be pursued

...

"What I still don't see, though, is the reason."

He dug his paddle in. The kayak tilted startlingly. I

leaned the other way from reflex, crossed my arms over

my chest.

The craft settled. When he spoke again his tone

was harsh. "No, of course you don't. Why would you?

I'm an old guy who sings Jesus music. I'm surprised

you even noticed."

He pushed us toward the beach. "He'd killed my

wife, scared my son, mortified my spirit. But yet I was a

man of religion." He said it resignedly, as if it were

some chronic, incurable disease.

"So I prayed over it. What could I do when confronted

with an evil like that? What was my task that

had been set for me? What," he intoned, "was my

duty?"

A flock of mallards rose from a cove all at once,

the sound of their beating wings huge in the bright

noonday silence.

"I wanted his soul," Heywood Sondergard said. "I

wanted his immortal soul. And I was determined to

have it." He set the kayak parallel to the dock.

"So you and Marcus followed him. What did he

think of it?" I tried to imagine. "It must've driven him

nuts."

Heywood chuckled. Somewhere an outboard

roared, then fell into a low, steady rumble. Across the

lake, a kid ran off the end of a pier, landed in the water

with a splash, shouted at the cold.

"At first he would try to attack us. Throw things,

try to start fires under the Winnebago, that kind of

behavior."

Heywood sounded almost indulgent. "Then he began

trying to avoid us. To Reuben, we were the conscience

he never had."

"So the other night, why did he ... ?"

"Visit, and threaten? I suppose back on his home

territory he felt stronger. He thought he might get the

upper hand again. But he didn't. I refused his demand,

laughed at his threat, and told him we were going to

follow him till the day he died."

At the memory, Heywood sounded pleased. "And

you know what? I think Reuben finally believed me.

He looked ... frightened."

"And you figured what, that he'd break down

someday? Throw himself on your mercy and beg forgiveness?

Embrace salvation?"

Heywood waved a hand as if acknowledging the

unlikeliness of any such thing. The kayak slid in

against the dock pilings.

"I didn't know. I only knew I had to try what I

could, that if he were saved it would have made it all

worth it."

He set the paddles on the dock. "That a change of

heart was the only thing that could make any of it

worth it."

A car was pulling up to the camps. "My ride,"

Heywood said.

I had a last question but didn't know how to put it.

The killer almost surely didn't know about the skin

shred in Weasel Bodine's mouth, and if I tipped that

domino over I didn't know what might happen. Besides,

I'd promised Bob Arnold not to mention it.

I could ask one thing, though: "Was Wesley Bodine

ever a member of the youth group you had at the

church?"

He didn't have to think about it. "I don't remember

anyone by that name. And I would; I knew all the

youngsters quite well."

"I see. Well, thanks for talking to me. You cleared

up a lot of things I'd worried over. And I don't suspect

Marcus anymore," I added, putting just the right touch

of shamefaced apology into it. "I'm afraid my imagination

must just've kind of gotten away from me."

As I'd told Marcus, I'd met some great liars in the

city. What I hadn't said was how much I'd learned:

watching, listening. Or how much I'd practiced the art

myself.

Heywood had told the truth about not knowing

Wesley Bodine. Now he smiled forgivingly, turned to

walk toward the car.

"Oh, and by the way," I said casually, "if Marcus

ever wants a cosmetic surgeon to check his hand--for

that scar or birthmark or whatever it is--my ex