When Emmalynn Remembers Page 15

  “I spanked her. She rebelled. I locked her in her room. She climbed out her window. Every other night she would go for a walk. Sometimes she’d be gone for fifteen minutes, sometimes an hour. The counselor at school said it wasn’t anything to be worried about. He used a lot of big words I couldn’t understand and a lot of technical terms, but what he meant was she was growing up too fast and needed an outlet for her energy. He said not to worry, but I worried just the same.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together. “That night she was gone a long time, over an hour. She walked all the way to Burt Reed’s cottage. He was her special friend. His light was on and he was sitting in his room making fishing lures. She was fascinated. She watched him twist the wires with a few colored feathers and insert the hook. She said she thought she heard a scream, but it was so far away she didn’t pay any attention to it. Then, a few minutes later, a man came towards the cottage. He had an axe—”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HER VOICE broke. A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. Her shoulders quivered once, and she almost lost control. The hysteria that was inside threatened to break loose. The widow gripped the edge of the sofa and took a deep breath. She composed herself. It took great effort. Her dark brown eyes grew expressionless once again, and when she continued to speak her voice was toneless. “She scrambled under a clump of bushes. The man began to thrash around in the bushes, looking for a good place to hide the axe. Once he touched her but it was dark and he didn’t realize what he’d touched. He finally shoved the axe under a thick clump of bushes and left. Betty was petrified. It was ten minutes before she could move. She ran all the way home.”

  My flesh seemed to have turned cold. I knew my face wore an expression of pure horror. I could see the child cowering under the bushes, trembling as the man thrashed around her, coming closer, breathing heavily. I could feel her terror as his hand reached down, touched her. She must have wanted to scream, but she was frightened numb, her vocal cords paralyzed. It was too horrible to contemplate. I chewed my lower lip and tried to force that picture out of my mind.

  “Did she recognize the man?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  “No. It was too dark. He was big. That’s all she could tell me. When he touched her she saw his hand. He was wearing gloves. That’s all.”

  I remembered the theory Billie had expounded this afternoon. The axe would naturally have Burt Reed’s fingerprints on it, as he was the only one who would have handled it before it was stolen. The killer wore gloves each time he handled the axe, and, after he had murdered with it and hidden it, it would still have had only Reed’s prints on it. It was almost too simple and, because of this same simplicity, devilishly clever.

  “I was waiting for her when she came home,” the widow continued. “She looked pale and scared, but she didn’t say anything. I didn’t press her. I could see she was upset, but I assumed it was because she was afraid of a spanking.”

  “Did she tell you in the morning?”

  Widow Murphy shook her head. “She was silent and sullen all the next day, wouldn’t speak to anyone. We heard the news over the radio. Then we heard that Burt Reed had been arrested. Betty came to me then. She told me everything. She was terrified. I was, too, but I knew we had to tell the police about it. I was afraid he would—would come after Betty, thinking she might identify him, but I knew I couldn’t let that innocent man go to prison. I waited, thinking I’d have enough courage in a day or so to tell the police, and then Burt Reed died of a heart attack in his cell and there wasn’t any reason to talk.”

  “A murderer was loose,” I said.

  “I couldn’t afford to think of that.”

  “If you had, Betty might be here today,” I said quietly.

  “I couldn’t do that,” she said. “The risk—”

  “I understand, Mrs. Murphy. You were a mother.”

  “I was wrong. I know that. I should have gone to the police immediately. I would have—to save Burt Reed. But when he died I could only think of my little girl. As long as no one knew, she was in no danger. I told her to keep quiet about it. I warned her of what might happen if she talked about it to anyone, and she understood. But time passed—” She stared down at her hands. “Time passed, and nothing happened. The threat vanished and it was like something that had never happened. She wanted attention, and she found she could get it by bragging about her friendship with Burt Reed. She began to drop little hints here and there. She bragged to her schoolmates. I warned her. God knows I warned her.”

  “Mrs. Murphy—” I said hesitantly. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

  “The man,” she said. “The son. He was talking to my baby this afternoon. People saw them together.”

  “George Reed? You think he might have murdered Henrietta? But—why would he want to throw suspicion on his own father? Why would he spend all this time trying to prove his father was innocent?”

  “I don’t know anything about any of that,” she said in the same toneless voice, “But I know he was always asking questions, always lurking around. My little girl was afraid of him. He’s big. That man was big. He’s one of these radicals—stirring up trouble all the time—and he was plenty mad when Mrs. Stern made his father stop building.”

  “It doesn’t seem logical,” I protested.

  Widow Murphy looked at me with those expressionless brown eyes. There was a bitter smile on her thin lips. “Is any of this logical?” she asked. The lips trembled and the smile vanished. She sank back against the sofa, all energy and emotion depleted. No one could reach her now, not for a long time. I wanted to take her hand and pat it, but I knew that the gesture would have been futile. I doubted if she would even have been aware of it. I stood up, feeling completely helpless.

  Billie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, an apron tied over the jade green dress, her hair spilling over her shoulders.

  “You heard?” I said quietly.

  Billie nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to tell Officer Stevens everything she told me,” I replied. “Then—I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t just sit around.”

  “Em, don’t do anything rash.”

  “I can’t just wait. I’ll go to pieces.”

  “I doubt that,” she said.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Sean. He was sitting at the table, a piece of toast in his hand.

  “I’m going to have a cup of that coffee,” Billie said, “and then I’m going to see that he finishes his dinner and put him to bed. After that, I think I’ll try to get her to eat something. She’s in a bad way now, but in a little while she’s going to need someone.”

  Billie spoke in a quiet, sensible voice. She was completely in command of the situation. I wasn’t at all surprised. The mod clothes and flippant mannerisms were deceiving only to people who didn’t know what genuine character was made of. In a crisis, I’d take Billie anytime.

  Officer Stevens was on the telephone when I returned to the front part of the store. The cigarette smoke was thicker than ever. The burly policemen looked even more ill at ease, more flushed. George Reed was gone. He had not been under any form of arrest. They had merely wanted to question him. Officer Stevens put down the phone and grimaced, his eyes narrowed, deep lines about his mouth. I asked him to step outside with me. We stood in the tiny parking lot beside the store. Clouds rolled over the moon, but there was still enough light for me to see his face as I told him everything the widow had said.

  “So Reed was innocent,” he said grimly. “The proof was there all along and we had no way of knowing. If only the woman had talked. It would have saved a great deal of trouble.” He shook his head, his hands in the pockets of the wrinkled blue suit. A gust of wind fluttered his tie up against his shoulder.

  “A little girl is missing,” I said. “That’s the only important thing right now.”

  “We’ll find her. And we’ll get him.”

  “I’m sure
of it,” I told him. “My memory is coming back—quickly. I’m remembering more and more—”

  “You think you can tell me who the killer is?”

  “By morning,” I said.

  “I don’t like this, Emmalynn. I feel responsible for you. You’re in a dangerous position.”

  “No more so than I have been in up ’til now.”

  “I think we’d better pack up and send you back to London. We can’t run the risk of—”

  “Just concentrate on finding that child,” I retorted.

  One of the policemen came out to tell Officer Stevens that he had received another telephone call. Stevens left, his shoulders stooped, his face lined. I walked around the store and stood on the pier where Gordon and I had talked this afternoon. I rested my hands on the wooden railing. I could hear the water swirling beneath the wooden planks. The sea was inky black. Far out a ship flashed red and white signals, mere pinpoints of light. The moon came out from behind the clouds. Everything was washed in a murky silver glow.

  I tried to relax. I tried to make my mind a blank. It was useless. I kept thinking about Betty Murphy with her pixie face and shaggy blonde hair and cocky, audacious mannerisms. It was a dark night, and cold. She was out there somewhere. I squared my shoulders and went quickly to the car. I knew there was a flashlight in the glove compartment. I got it. I knew I had no business doing what I was about to do, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t just sit and wait and watch the clock and pray and hope. I had to act.

  I moved beyond the lights of the store and disappeared into the darkness. I couldn’t use the flashlight yet. They would try to stop me if they saw me leaving. A whole search party was out looking for Betty, and it was preposterous to think I might find her where they failed, but at least I would be moving, at least I would be doing something. Fifty yards from the store a flight of rickety wooden stairs twisted and turned down a shelf of rock and led to the beach below. I moved down them cautiously, holding on to the railing. The stairs were hazardous, the wood near-rotten. I could feel each step give way a little as I put my weight on it. There was just enough moonlight for me to see how to get down without hurtling forward over the jagged rocks that projected up all around the stairs.

  As I moved down I remembered the gun. It was in my purse. I had left the purse with Billie. I frowned. I didn’t really need the gun. It would have been nice to have with me just the same. I went on down the stairs.

  Below there was nothing but sand and rock and sea. The smooth, cultivated expanse of beach where children played and bathers lolled was further on down the shore line. Here the waves were angry, the rocks treacherous, the sand gritty and littered with shells. The thundering noise of the water as it hurled itself against the rocks was deafening. Salty spray stung my cheeks. I felt I had stepped into the middle of a nightmare with the chaos of noise and the tormented shadows that danced about the rocks. I switched on the flashlight. The thin yellow spear of light only heightened the dark around me.

  I swerved the flashlight left and right. The yellow ray slid over the sand, brushed over the wet gray faces of rock, picked out pieces of driftwood in my path. There was perhaps twenty yards of beach between the waterline and the shelf of rock that reared up, but it widened as I moved further away from the resort areas. Soon the shelf of rock was gone and I was on an expanse of beach much like that where Betty had shown me the dog Burt Reed had carved for her. The large rocks no longer projected out of the water. Here the beach was smooth. The waves washed over the shingles with a sucking sound. The sand was wet under my feet. Large pieces of driftwood littered the beach, and to one side of me the sand dunes began to rise up in grassy humps.

  The moonlight was pale with a greenish glow. Mist swirled in the air in thin tendrils broken and torn by the wind. I almost stumbled over an old deserted row-boat with its sides caved in, barnacles clinging to the rotten wood. Now that the moon was out from behind the clouds I really had no need for the flashlight. I switched it off. I might need it later, and it was best to preserve the batteries. I moved slowly along the beach in the direction of the Stern place, taking the route I knew Betty must have taken this morning.

  I had no real hopes of finding her, but I studied every foot of the way, and I called her name, over and over again. The search party must have already covered this area, for I saw no signs of them. They were probably further inland now, going through the woods with their lanterns and short wave radios. I thought I heard voices calling far away, but it might have been the wind swishing through the tall brown grass or a sea gull confused by the night.

  Betty is merely lost, I told myself. How could she be lost? She must know this area backwards and forwards. She fell and hurt herself. Yes, she fell. She’s waiting, patiently waiting, knowing we’ll find her. She’s all alone. Frightened. They must find her. I must find her.

  These thoughts darted over the surface of my mind like frantic birds, fighting furiously to keep back the dreaded fear that threatened to blot everything else out. I couldn’t allow myself to think of the more logical explanation for her disappearance. If I let that thought take root, I would be utterly defeated.

  The heel of my shoe caught on the edge of a rock. I pitched forward and landed on my hands and knees. I climbed back up on weakened legs. It must have been thirty minutes since I left the store. I was out of breath. My throat was hoarse from calling Betty. The air was damp with sea, and it was getting colder by the minute. I stood very still, my hands pressed to my temples. I could feel the pulses throbbing. I stumbled on, and it was several minutes before I realized I had dropped the flashlight when I had fallen down. I was too tired to go back for it. There was plenty of moonlight. I wouldn’t need the flashlight.

  The moon was promptly veiled with clouds. The greenish-white expanse of sand turned blue-black. The clouds drifted away, and the beach gleamed again, became a floor of shifting shadows as more clouds were blown across the surface of the moon. I stopped. I listened. I thought I heard someone calling my name. It sounded like a hoarse whisper from this distance. Emmalynn … the word echoed in the air and then evaporated, and it was not repeated. I must have imagined it. Who could have been calling me? I felt an icy chill inside. I had to force myself to move on.

  I saw a small wooden pier stretching out over the water ahead. It was a mere ruin, beginning a few feet from the water’s edge and ending not ten yards further out. Some of the planks had broken in two and hung down like jagged fingers that reached for the water. There was a tiny hut, too, one side collapsed, the rest leaning precariously. There was something ghostly about the scene, bathed in the silver-green glow of moonlight and partially veiled by the tendrils of mist that swirled like lost souls. I wondered if some fisherman had once lived here. A circle of rocks in front of the hut contained wet ashes and lumps of charcoal. It all looked as bizarre and mysterious as some Druid encampment deserted centuries ago.

  I stepped over to the hut. Rays of shimmering moonlight poured through the remnants of the roof to reveal an earthen floor littered with rubbish. Motes of dust swirled in the rays of light, and a horrible fetid odor rose from a pile of rags heaped in one corner. I started to turn away. Something held me there. For a moment I did not know what it was. Something had registered. Something had caught my eye … I saw a broken porcelain pot, a rusty frying pan, half a dozen cans, and there, touched by a ray of light and bathed in silver, the tiny wooden dog Betty had shown me this morning. I picked it up, held it in the palm of my hand, stared at it in horror. I could feel my whole body trembling.

  Betty treasured this carving. It was her prize possession. She kept it snug in the pockets of her jeans, taking it out only to show to people she trusted. She had shown it to me. She had shown it to Gordon Stuart. Who else had she shown it to? What was it doing on the floor of this forsaken hut? There had to be some reason. The water rushed over the shingles with that monotonous sucking sound. Filmy sheets of mist broke and fragmented. The cold wind blew through the stiff brown grass and
caused it to crackle. I stared at the tiny wooden dog in the palm of my hand as though it were an object endowed with magic powers.

  The noises of the beach stirred around me, the wind, the waves. The poles of the old pier creaked. Somewhere a cricket rasped noisily. I was not aware of the new sound at first. It blended with the others, camouflaged by them. I dropped the carving into my pocket and stared out at the inky black water that swelled and churned and came rushing over the sand. I seemed to be paralyzed. The cold wind chilled my skin and whipped my hair. Made immobile by the night and my own fear, I closed my eyes, shutting out everything, and seconds passed. It was then that I heard the new sound. I could not identify it at first. It was a pounding, crunching noise, coming towards me from the part of the beach I had already covered. I listened with my brows pressed together, trying to place the sound. Footsteps, running towards me.…

  “Emmalynn—”

  The wind caught the word and shattered it. It was a hoarse cry. I did not recognize the voice. I peered down the beach. Through the shadows and the floating tendrils of mist I could barely see the man. He was far away, a dark form coming closer. He shouted again but the roar of the sea drowned his voice. I watched him coming towards me, my body stiff, my blood cold. It was a nightmare. It wasn’t real. I wondered vaguely who he was and what he wanted with me. You’ll wake up, I told myself, and it will all be over. My fear was so strong I was numb from it, held captive in its grip. He was coming closer. I could hear him panting now. I tried to scream. No sound would come.

  I don’t know how long I stood watching with horrified eyes. It seemed an hour. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. The panic broke. My body moved instinctively. I looked towards the hut. No refuge there. I saw the waves swelling up and spilling over the shingles. Cut off. I had no hope of out-running him. I ran towards the sand dunes, stumbled around one of the great humps, fell, got to my feet, moved around another and another until I was surrounded by mounds of earth overgrown with stiff brown grass. The clouds blew across the surface of the sky. The moon was completely exposed, a misshapen round ball that gilded the area with unwanted light. The grass rustled all around me with a fierce, threatening sound.