Graveyard Plots Read online

  "Anything between the highway and those homes?"

  "No."

  "That's it," Reilly said.

  The hardtop turned onto the dirt road. Agenrood followed. They began to climb steadily; the road twisted an irregular path, with several doglegs and a sharp curve now and then. High wisps of fog began to shred in Agenrood's headlights, and he could see that at the crests of the hills, where the private homes were, it was thick and blanketing.

  The hardtop came around one of the doglegs and its stop lights went on, flashing blood-red in the gray-black night. Agenrood said, "There's a turnout up ahead. I think he's going in there."

  The hardtop edged into the turnout, parallel to the upper end, where a slope was grown thickly with bushes and scrub cypress. "He's stopping," Agenrood said.

  "Pull up behind him," Pordenza directed from the floor of the back seat. "Leave a car's length between you."

  Agenrood complied. When he saw the headlights on the hardtop go out, he shut his own off. It was dark then, but the moonlight—though dimmed now and then by the tendrils of fog—bathed the turnout with sufficient light to see by.

  "What's he doing?" Pordenza asked.

  "Just sitting there."

  "When he gets out of the car, let him get clear of it by a few steps. Not too many. Then let us know."

  Agenrood could hear faint stirrings in the back seat. He knew Reilly and Pordenza had moved one to each of the rear doors. They were waiting there now, with one hand on the door handles and the other wrapped around their guns.

  "It's a report on one Steven Cain," the studious man told him. "A very comprehensive report we had compiled."

  Cain continued to look out of the window.

  "It says you were a colonel in the Marines during the Second World War, twice decorated for valor on Leyte and Okinawa. It says that you graduated at the top of your class at the University of California, where you majored in law enforcement following the war. It says that you joined the San Francisco Police Force in 1949 and while you were a patrolman in the Mission District you once captured four men in the act of robbing a factory payroll. It says that you were the youngest man in San Francisco police history to be promoted to the Detective Squad, and the second youngest to make division lieutenant." The studious man paused, looking up at Cain again. "There's more, a lot more. It's a very impressive record you've got, Cain."

  Cain did not answer.

  "Impressive enough to indicate an acute intelligence," the studious man said. "But I don't see any sign of intelligence in this crazy stunt you pulled off here. I don't see anything at all of the man this report covers."

  Again, Cain did not answer.

  "It was because of your daughter, wasn't it, Cain?" the man with the long neck said suddenly, speaking for the first time. "Because of what happened to Doreen?"

  Cain brought his eyes away from the window and let them rest on the man with the long neck. He kept his lips pressed tightly together.

  "It's all there in the report," the man with the long neck said. "About how you raised the girl after your wife died twelve years ago, how you were devoted to her. And it's in there, too, about how she was run down and killed by a car on an afternoon eight months ago when she was coming home from high school; how a patrol unit nearby saw the hit-and-run and chased the car and caught it a few blocks away; how the driver pulled a gun when they approached and one of the officers was forced to shoot him in self-defense, killing him instantly; how that driver turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old drug addict and convicted felon; and how they found almost half a kilo of heroin under the dashboard of the car—"

  "That's enough!" Cain was leaning forward on the bed, oblivious to the sharp pain that the sudden movement had caused in his chest; his jaw was set grimly and his eyes were flashing.

  The man with the long neck seemed not to hear him. "For all intents and purposes, you went just a little crazy when you heard the news, Cain. You needed somebody to strike out at, somebody to blame for your daughter's death. The kid was dead, so it had to be somebody else. That somebody was James Agenrood, the Organization's head of narcotics distribution in this area.

  "You began a one-man crusade to get Agenrood; at first, you went through official channels and the newspapers agreed to play down the investigation—which was why Agenrood never knew your name. You dug up or bought or intimidated every scrap of knowledge available on Agenrood. But at the end of it all, you hadn't uncovered a thing on him that could put him away; he was, officially, a respectable citizen, President of Consolidated Trades, Inc., and untouchable. You just couldn't let go of it, though. Getting Agenrood became an obsession; you neglected your official duties in the pursuit of it. The Commissioner had to call you in finally and order you to cease. But you refused, and he had no alternative but to suspend you. A week later, you resigned. Shortly after that, you moved to Portland to live with a married sister and everybody here was maybe a little glad to see you go because they thought that finally you were through with it.

  "But you weren't through. You had to get Agenrood, one way or another. You couldn't commit murder; you'd been an honest, dedicated cop too long to resort to that. So you went up to Portland and thought it all out, looking for another way, and then you came back here last Wednesday and stole a car to make the fake attempt on Agenrood's life look professional. You knew he would never pay the kind of money you asked him for; you knew there was only one other thing he could do. You made sure he would be there when it was tried, and then you contacted us. You knew we were as eager to get something on Agenrood as you were, and you told us just enough to get us interested—but not enough so we knew what you were planning—so that we would agree to send a couple of men up to that road to wait. And it worked out okay, at least to your way of thinking. We've got Agenrood on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder, among other things; he's through with the Organization, because they won't take the chance of becoming involved by jumping to his defense. So you got him, Cain. You got your revenge, all right."

  Cain had slumped back against the pillows. But his jaw remained grim. He did not say anything.

  "But was it worth it?" the man with the long neck went on finally. "Was it really worth it, Cain? Was it worth the prison sentence you're facing on a list of charges that range from car theft to carrying a concealed weapon? What the hell have you actually gained by all this? Why didn't you let us handle it? We'd have gotten Agenrood sooner or later. We always get them sooner or later."

  The man with the long neck stopped speaking then, and it became very quiet in the room. After a long time, Cain said, "Maybe you would have gotten him, and maybe you wouldn't. I couldn't take the chance, don't you see? Agenrood killed my daughter, just as sure as if he put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. I had to be the one; it was up to me. I had to get him for Doreen. Don't you understand that?"

  The two men looked at Cain, and then at one another. The room was silent again for several minutes. Then the two men stood, walked to the door.

  "Don't you?" Cain said to them, softly.

  "Yes," the studious man answered, just as softly. He put his hand on the knob and opened the door. "Yes, Cain, we understand."

  Cain, lying in the bed, staring at the closed door after they had gone, wondered if they really understood at all. But after a while, when he had been alone for some time, he decided that it did not matter, one way or the other.

  A LOT ON HIS MIND

  Arbagast was drunk in bed when the police came.

  They told the old lady who had let them in to make some coffee, and then they took Arbagast into the bathroom and put him under a cold shower. They kept him there until he started to come out of it, and by that time the coffee was ready. They fed him cup after cup, hot and black, holding him upright on a straight-backed chair.

  When they were certain he was sober enough to understand, they told him they had caught the man who had run down and killed his wife four months before.

  Arbagast did not sa
y anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, the sound of his voice made one of the policemen shudder involuntarily. "Who was it?"

  "A man named Philip Colineaux," the policeman who had shuddered said. "He was involved in another hit-and-run tonight, and this time we got him."

  "Someone else was killed?"

  "No. He sideswiped a car at an intersection and kept going. There was a patrol car in the vicinity, and they chased him a couple of blocks and flagged him over."

  "Was he drinking?"

  "Not this time, anyway," the other policeman said. "They took him down for the test, and he passed that all right, but he was pretty shook up. He made a few slips, and that's how we found out about the other time."

  "Did he confess to it?"

  "Yes," the first policeman said. "He told us he didn't see her. He's a stockbroker and had a lot on his mind. 'Preoccupied,' he called it."

  "Speeding?"

  "He says no. But he was punching near forty when he hit that car tonight. You can bet he wasn't crawling the other time either."

  "Have you got him in jail now?"

  The first policeman shook his head, watching Arbagast. There was something about the way he was sitting there, rigid, his eyes flat and unblinking, showing nothing, that made the policeman feel cold. He said, "His lawyer came down and got him out on bail."

  "All right," Arbagast said. "Thank you for coming by to tell me."

  The two policemen looked at each other, hesitant to leave. The first one said, "Mr. Arbagast, we know you've had a terrible loss. You're taking it pretty hard, and that's understandable. But, well . . ."

  He faltered, groping for words. Arbagast looked at him steadily, his face impassive.

  "What I'm trying to say, Mr. Arbagast," the policeman went on finally, "the law's going to take care of this one good and proper. We've got him on a manslaughter charge now, and he had the damage to his car fixed by some friend. That's compounding a felony."

  "Yes?" Arbagast said.

  "So if I were you, I'd just try to forget about the whole thing. It took some time, but we got him, and that's the end of it. Sure, it won't bring your wife back, and it's damned little consolation, but he's going to be punished for what he did. You can rest assured of that."

  The policeman paused, trying to read Arbagast's eyes, but they were inscrutable. He seemed about to go on, and then changed his mind. He said only, "I guess that's about it."

  "Thank you again for stopping by," Arbagast said.

  The two policemen went to the door. "Well, good night," the first one said.

  "Yes," Arbagast said. "Good night."

  When they had gone, Arbagast lay down on the bed, his hands clasped beneath his head, and stared up at the darkened ceiling. There was a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, but he did not touch that. He only lay thinking, staring up at the ceiling, until the first gray light of dawn began to filter through the single window.

  Arbagast got up then and went to the closet and took the City Telephone Directory from a shelf there. Then he dressed slowly and shaved and went downstairs to his car. He drove across town to the address he had found in the telephone book and parked across the street. He sat there, looking over at the white frame house where Philip Colineaux lived.

  It was a nice house, well kept, freshly painted. A flagstone walk led through a garden alive in color, and there was a high green hedge bordering the right side of the property, near the garage.

  Arbagast sat staring across the street. Eight o'clock came, and then nine. No one ventured out. Colineaux wasn't going to work today. Not today.

  Arbagast returned to the small furnished room. He made some coffee and fried two eggs, and then he took the gun from the closet and broke it down and oiled and cleaned it. He put shells in the chambers, spinning the cylinder, and, when he was satisfied, put on the safety and slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat.

  That night, just after dark, he drove to Philip Colineaux's house and parked across the street, as he had done that morning. He sat there in the darkness until ten o'clock. There were lights in the front room, but the windows were curtained and he could not see inside. No one came out.

  The following morning, Arbagast was there again at dawn. He waited until almost noon. There was no sign of activity from inside the house.

  At dusk he set up his vigil once more. Shortly past nine, the porch light came on above the door. Arbagast sat up in the seat, his hand touching the gun in his coat pocket.

  A man came out onto the porch, standing in the light. There was a woman behind him, in the doorway. Going out to get some air, Arbagast thought. He's been in there two days. But he won't drive.

  The woman shut the door after a moment, and the man stood alone on the porch. He was short, past forty, dressed in slacks and a light windbreaker; hatless. Even at the distance across the street, Arbagast could see that his features were nondescript; it was not the face you would expect to see on a killer.

  The man came down the steps and began to walk along the flagstone walk toward the street. Arbagast got out of the car, his fingers clenching on the gun in his pocket, and walked quickly across the deserted street. The man stopped in the shadows of the green hedge as he approached, frowning slightly.

  Arbagast said, "Colineaux? Philip Colineaux?"

  "Yes?" the man said.

  "My name is Walter Arbagast."

  The name did not immediately mean anything to Colineaux.

  "Yes?" he said again.

  Arbagast took the gun from his pocket. Colineaux made a half-step backward, his eyes bulging. "My God, what—?"

  "Come with me, please," Arbagast said.

  "With you?" Colineaux said blankly.

  "That's my car across the street."

  Colineaux shook his head, not comprehending. "Who are you?" he said. "What is it you want?"

  "My name is Walter Arbagast. Surely you remember the name, Colineaux."

  "No, I . . ."

  "Rosa Arbagast was my wife."

  Understanding, complete and instant, flooded Colineaux's eyes.

  His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came forth. His face paled. Spittle flecked his lips.

  "Yes," Arbagast said. "That's right. The woman you murdered."

  "Murdered?" Colineaux said. "No! No, listen, it was an accident! It was dark. She was wearing dark clothes. I was thinking about something else, and I didn't see her. She came out of nowhere. Oh, God, it was an accident!"

  "You ran her down," Arbagast said. "You ran her down and then left her to die in the street."

  The right side of Colineaux's face began to spasm convulsively. His eyes were black, terrified. "I was frightened!" he moaned. "I panicked! Can't you understand how it was?"

  "I understand you murdered my wife," Arbagast said without rancor, without emotion.

  "What . . . what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to kill you," Arbagast said simply. "I'm going to run you down with my car. The same way you ran my wife down."

  "You're mad! You're insane!"

  "Yes," Arbagast said. "Perhaps I am."

  Colineaux began to sag. It was as if the bones in his body had suddenly liquefied. His mouth opened and a soundless scream bubbled from his throat.

  Arbagast pressed the gun against his stomach. "Don't make a sound," he said. "If you do, I'll kill you right here in front of your house, where you stand."

  Colineaux seemed about to crumble. Arbagast took his arm and led him across the street. He opened the rear door to the car. "Get inside and lie flat on the seat. Put your hands behind you."

  Colineaux was like a child in his fear. Mutely, he obeyed. Arbagast shut the door and got into the front seat. He took the roll of adhesive tape from the glove compartment and began to tape Colineaux's hands and ankles. When he had finished, he put a strip of tape across his mouth.

  "If you rise up in the seat," Arbagast said, "I'll stop the car and shoot you in the back of the head. Do you understand?"

&nbs
p; There was a strangled whimper from the man in the back seat. Arbagast nodded. He started the car and drove away.

  "We're going out to the Western Avenue Extension," he said aloud, for Colineaux to hear. "There's a side road there, leading up to the reservoir. Nobody uses it much anymore."

  The quiet suburban street sang beneath the wheels of the car, and that was the only reply.

  "Do you know the stretch just before you reach the reservoir?" Arbagast asked. "It's walled by bluffs on two sides. There's no way you can get off the road there."

  The night was deep and black and still.

  "I'm going to untie you and let you out there," Arbagast said. "I'm going to give you a chance, Colineaux. You can run for your life. That's more of a chance than you gave Rosa."

  The street sang faster, faster

  Arbagast turned his head slightly, looking into the rear seat. "Do you hear me, Colineaux? Do you—"

  He did not see the woman until it was almost too late.

  The street had been empty, dark. Then, as if by some strange necromancy, she was there, directly in front of him, a shadowy blur with a grotesque white face that seemed to rush at him, hurtling through the night as he stood still, an empyreal vision captured in the yellow glare of his headlights.

  Arbagast swung the wheel in terror, his foot crashing down on the brake, just as that monstrous white face seemed about to strike him head on. The car went into a vicious skid, the quiet, still night exploding into the scream of rubber against pavement. One of the wheels went up over the curb, and the rear end scraped the base of a giant eucalyptus tree that grew there, and then the car settled, and died, on the street. The black night was once again silent.

  Arbagast threw open the door, leaning out. The woman stood in the middle of the street behind him, an obscure statue. Then she began to walk, moving unsteadily, coming up the street toward him, and he could see her clearly, see her white face shining in the darkness.

  It was Rosa's face.

  A strangled cry tore from Arbagast's throat. He slammed the door, his hand twisting the ignition key. The starter whirred, whirred, and then caught, and he fought the lever into gear, his hands trembling violently on the wheel, his heart plunging in his chest. He got the car turned, straightened, and then he was pulling away, and the woman, the apparition, grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until she became a speck that was swallowed, digested, by the night.