Death Qualified Part 27

"East. Someone worked real hard to get it turned around. My boys found red lava dirt in the rocks where the car dropped it in getting turned around."

"Heading back the way it had come?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

She started to walk toward the jury box with the pictures.

"It's very muddy, isn't it? The car, I mean. Could you tell where it had been by the dirt on it?"

"Pretty much. That's mostly red lava dust and mud.

There was a lot of melting snow around there back in June, and a lot of mud everywhere. It was a mess."

"So that was Sat.u.r.day afternoon. When did you trace that car to Lucas Kendricks?"

"Not definitely until the next week." He explained about the stolen license plates, and the missing registration.

"By late Sat.u.r.day, we knew that Lucas Kendricks had been shot, and that's when I suspected he must have walked across the mountains, and I got the tracker to find out how, to find out where he camped, look around his campsites, things like that. We still didn't know what happened to the young lady. Me and the sheriff from Lane County put together a crew to try to trace her down that creek." "Some days later did your tracker report that he had been hired to show a stranger where the campsites were?"

"Yes. It's in my report. Seemed a curious thing, so I included it in the report."

"And then what did you do?"

"I went over the campsites myself, each one. They'd all been torn up, like someone had been searching for some thing. Ground disturbed, logs rolled over, rocks moved, even a little digging."

Barbara went to the big map and pointed.

"This is where the car was found, and here is the first campsite.

How far apart are they?"

"About ten miles, depending on how you go. Could be longer, twelve or thirteen miles, if you stick to the Forest Service roads." "Your report shows that the pictures you developed from Janet Moseley's camera were made at about one in the afternoon. Is that right?"

"Yes, it is."

She pointed to the map again.

"This is the stream where her body was thrown in. How far is this from the car?"

"Nine hundred yards."

"Did you find the rope?"

"No, we didn't."

"Was there any rope in the car, or around it?"

"No, there wasn't."

She thanked him then and had no more questions. Tony was on his feet quickly, and he made the sheriff admit that there was no way to know with certainty who had made the various campsites they had located. And, in fact, they had no way of knowing for certain anything about the trail Lucas had taken, where he had slept, where he had rested. "Isn't it true that whenever there is a grotesque murder, curiosity seekers gather, Sheriff?"

"Yes, it is."

"And don't these ghouls sometimes hamper an investigation, even destroy evidence in their eagerness to partic.i.p.ate in some sick way?"

"I object. Your Honor. These questions are both leading and improper in their generality."

"Sustained."

"No more questions," Tony said.

Judge Lundgren called Barbara and Tony to the bench to inform them that if Tony had no witnesses to call after Ruth Brandywine's statement was presented in court, he would recess the trial on Friday, the next day, until Tuesday at nine.

That meant the jury would have all weekend to ponder the very d.a.m.ning testimony that Ruth Brandywine had voiced, a bad break, and from the expression on Tony's face she knew he was thinking exactly the same. He was not quite smirking. But it also meant that there were four days in which to dangle the bait for Brandywine to snap.

that evening the reporters swarmed around the halls of the courthouse. Frank maneuvered Nell, John, and Amy out through them with aplomb; he had done this many times, and while he never actually shoved anyone, neither did he allow anyone to impede the forward momentum of the group he was herding. Barbara, waiting until they were out of sight, the hordes of news people dragged along like a wake, was surprised when Clive Belloc appeared at her side.

"Can I drive you around the block, or to a bar for a drink or something?" he asked.

"I can get my car and meet you at the door in five minutes."

"Fine with me," she said. A car waiting in the rain, a quick dash through the reporters, a getaway, fine. He hurried off and she began to time him. As long as she remained in the courtroom, the reporters would leave her alone, and she knew she did not have the finesse her father always showed with them. She was not above shoving.

After exactly five minutes she pulled her raincoat tighter around her, put her hood up, and made her run; the cameramen were there, the television crews, the newspaper reporters, all of them poised since she was the only one remaining now. She got through them to dive's car without uttering a single word, not even "No comment." She did not push anyone. She felt pleased with herself.

The rain was little more than a drizzle, an ever-descending cloud. It was ten minutes after six.

"A bar?" Clive asked.

"I thought maybe you had a date, a dinner date, or something, and it's been a tough day, but is there time for a drink?"

Actually it was not a date. She and Mike had an understanding, and how had that come about so soon? If she showed up by seven, they had dinner together, always at a restaurant; he did not cook, ever, except breakfast.

"There's time," she said, "if it's someplace near and the service is pretty fast."

"Know just the place." He drove to the valet parking garage at the Hilton, where he turned the car over to a youth who looked no more than fourteen; they stepped into an elevator that whisked them to the top floor, all in under five minutes. From their table in the lounge they could see the lights of Eugene, haloed with mist.

The drinks were less prompt than he had been, but even so, the timing was loose enough to let her start to relax.

But Clive was looking awkward and embarra.s.sed, as if he was not quite sure how to launch into what was on his mind. The pale area around his eyes was hardly noticeable now that his deep, rich tan was fading.

"I've been in the court every day," he said, just as the c.o.c.ktail waitress brought their drinks and arranged them.

He waited until she left.

"Anyway, I've really admired the way you're handling everything. What I said back in the beginning, that's more idiotic than ever. I'm really sorry about that."

Barbara shrugged. This wasn't what he had brought her up here to say. She sipped her wine.

He looked out at the city below, cleared his throat, sipped his drink, cleared his throat again, and finally said, "If Nell is seen out with someone, me, would that go against her now? I mean, all those reporters, if they found out that she's going out or anything, would that matter?"

His fingers were pressed so hard against his gla.s.s they had whitened; a the played in his jaw. He put his fingers on it, then, even more self-conscious, jerked his hand away again. He was like a college boy facing his orals.

"Depends," Barbara said judiciously.

"If she's spotted getting rowdy in a topless bar, for instance, that could be an item for comment. Or snorting up in a dim discotheque Not that the jury should be influenced by it, of course. No way could it be introduced as evidence, but still they do read papers and watch television news even if they aren't supposed to-."

He looked sheepish and more embarra.s.sed.

"I didn't mean anything like that. I mean dinner, a drive to the coast. You know. With just her, not the kids. We've all done things like that together, family friend sort of things, but I'm thinking of just the two of us."

Barbara smiled at him.

"She's a free woman, free to do what she pleases, with anyone who pleases her. Forget it.

If Tony had been able to cast any suspicions on her character he would have done it long ago. He couldn't, and now it's too late to worry about it."

He took a long drink and set his gla.s.s down firmly.

"Thanks. That's really what I thought. The other thing I wanted to ask is would you and your friend come to dinner Sunday night at my place? I'm asking Nell, of course." "I'll have to let you know. I've got your number. I'll give you a call tomorrow." She glanced at her watch and finished her wine.

"And now, it's time again."

He left a ten-dollar bill on the table; they retraced their steps, got into his car when it was delivered, and he drove her to the garage where she had parked. When she got out, he said, "Barbara, just thanks. For everything.

Thanks."

They went to Mazzi's, where Mike had calzone and she had Adriatic snapper and vegetable salad. Months ago when he said he never cooked, she had responded, "Neither do I!" thinking he had been suggesting that she should. Instead, he had nodded in complete agreement.

"Good. So, Mexican, Chinese, Italian, what?"

"I pay my way whatever we decide," she had said.

"Fine. So name it."

It was not that he was stingy, mean with money; it was rather that he did not care. She paid, he paid, it simply did not matter. And he relished whatever he ate; Italian was his favorite when they were in an Italian restaurant.

Then Chinese was the world's finest cuisine, or Mexican was.. .. One night, she would actually cook dinner, see if he thought that was the best thing since sliced bread.

Don't you eat vegetables, she had asked early, and he had become enthusiastic over a vegetarian restaurant that he knew.

"What were you writing in court today?" she asked at dinner that night.

"You saw? That's really surprising. You seemed to be concentrated to an inhuman degree."

"Is that how it looks?" she asked. She never had considered how she appeared to others in court.

"Don't you know that? I thought it must be one of the things they drill into you in school. You look absolutely there, with what is being said, what the jury is doing, what your client is doing, just there. One day I might decide you're someone to be afraid of, you can get so concentrated."

"What on earth are you talking about? Afraid? Of what?"

"I think you must be a.n.a.lyzing every word all the time.

At least in court you seem to be doing that. If you decide I'm lying, all is lost."

"When's the last time you lied to anyone?"

"It happens." He looked thoughtful.

"I'm sure it happens to everyone, maybe on a daily basis, but we're all so used to it that we don't even notice anymore."

"Yes, I agree. But when's the last time you lied?"

"See what I mean?" he said, leaning forward, grinning.

"You've got that concentrated look."

"You can't answer because you can't remember lying."

She took a quick breath and found herself saying swiftly, "You don't need to lie about anything because nothing's in your way; you have what you want; you don't envy anyone; and the world's just another interesting problem that you may or may not be able to solve. Either way, it's all right. If you can't, maybe someone else will, or maybe not. You would never be afraid of me or anyone else because you are totally self-sufficient. If I left tomorrow, you'd regret it for a time, but not too much, not enough to interfere with your life. You might be tempted to try to reduce our relationship to a formula that you can work with, try to simplify the complexities so they can be expressed with your magical symbols and so dealt with."

She was out of breath, and appalled at her own words. She had not planned that, had not thought through any of that, would never have brought any of it up this way, in a restaurant, on purpose. It had happened, had taken them both by surprise. She reached for her wine, kept her gaze on her hand, the gla.s.s.

"You're keeping score at the trial, aren't you?"

He sat back in his chair.

"See why I could be afraid of you? Yes."

"You can't even lie about that, can you?" Now she felt she was no longer out of control; her voice was measured, reflective.

"You knew it might make me furious, that I might create a scene here in a public place and you would feel like dying of embarra.s.sment, but even so, you won't lie about it. Do you have a formula worked out yet?"

"It's harder than I thought it would be," he admitted.

"But I'll get it."

She shook her head.

"You won't. I don't want to know how your score is shaping up, by the way. Don't stop, but don't tell me. Okay?"

Her own outburst, she wondered, how could something like that be factored into an equation? How could mathematics formulate the moment of unendurable jealousy, in expressible yearning, the moment when anger found expression in an act of violence, the wrenching fear of a parent with a desperately ill child? No equations, she told herself, not with people.

They had walked to the restaurant, just five blocks from his house; they walked back holding hands in the drizzle.

He never cared if it was raining, or if it was warm, cold, what the weather. At his house, where her car was parked at the curb, she said she wouldn't come in, too tired.

"I need sleep, lots and lots of sleep," she said.