Chapter 29

Sam turned on his headlights as darkness lowered over the road to Ashburg. He was alone in the patrol car.

No need to bring Thelma back.

He believed her story.

She hadn’t killed Dexter. She’d been in the graveyard with Joe, just as she claimed. In Sam’s mind, the condom confirmed that. It might’ve belonged to anyone, of course, but its location fit her story. From the place where they found it, she would’ve had a clear view of the Sherwood house.

As he sped over the dark road, Sam recalled that Ruthie had seen Dexter drive away from home that night. Around ten-fifteen or ten-thirty, when she went out to her car for cigarettes. Dex might’ve been on his way to the Sherwood house.

Thelma had seen him there after midnight – seen him go in, and not come out.

What the hell was he doing there?

Off duty, but in uniform.

The bright neon sign of the Sleepy Hollow Inn pulled Sam’s thoughts away from the case. He stared at the lighted windows of the office. The curtains were open. He glimpsed movement inside, but couldn’t recognize Melodie. His foot left the gas pedal. It brushed against the brake and started to descend. As he approached the motel driveway, he slammed his palm on the steering wheel, sending a shot of pain up his arm. He forced his foot back to the gas pedal.

For a few moments, he watched the motel in his side mirror. Then he took a curve, and darkness replaced its bright lights.

He imagined Melodie at a lighted window, peering out and seeing his car pass by. Would she feel the same disappointment Sam felt now – the same hungry ache and longing?

Sam shook his head.

Forget Melodie.

Melodie … a melodie that’s sweetly played in tune. What the hell is that, a poem?

‘That’s sweetly played in tune, ’ he repeated. ‘As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I, and I will love thee still, my dear, till a’ the seas gang dry. Sure. Burns. Rabbie Burns. Till a’ the seas gang dry. ’

He hadn’t thought of that poem in ten years. He’d memorized it in college – his junior year – for Donna. God, he’d been crazy about Donna. He’d recited the poem to her, one night by the river, and afterwards they made love together for the first time.

Good old Rabbie Burns.

The memory soured as he remembered Donna dumping him for that jerk, Roy. He’d warned her that Roy was a sadistic sicko, but she’d laughed it off. Claimed it was sour grapes.

Well, he hoped Donna never had to find out the hard way.

Funny he should think of Donna, after all this time. It was the poem – a melodie that’s sweetly played in tune.

Melodie again.

I hardly know her, he told himself. Why can’t I just forget about her?

Think about the case. Dexter. The Sherwood house. Why had Dex gone over there late at night? To meet someone? Then why in uniform? Must’ve gone on police business, or he would’ve worn civvies. There’d been no calls to the station that might’ve taken him there. Maybe someone called him at home.

Clara Hayes? She’s next door to the Sherwood house. She and Dexter were old friends. Maybe she saw a prowler, something like that, and asked him to come over.

Sam remembered the newspaper – still on Clara’s lawn at mid-afternoon today.

He hadn’t seen her at the fire last night.

His foot eased the gas pedal down. Speeding around a curve, he saw a car ahead. As he gained on it, he switched on his flasher. The car pulled aside, and he shot past it.

He drove as fast as he dared, slowing at curves, picking up speed on the straight-aways. Finally, Clara’s house came into view. Her porch light was on, and pale light showed through the curtains of her picture window.

Morley’s car, he saw, was still parked in the driveway of the Sherwood house.

Pulling onto the road’s shoulder, he stopped in front of Clara’s place. He switched off his lights, killed his motor, and climbed out. A chilly wind blew against him as he hurried across her lawn. He picked up the Clarion. Walking toward her door, he slipped off its rubber band and glanced at the headline: CHIEF BOYANSKI SLAIN.

On the front stoop, hidden behind a shrub, was another newspaper. Sam picked it up and opened it. The Thursday morning Clarion.

He pushed the doorbell.

As it rang, he heard an engine start. The car in the Sherwood driveway backed up. It swung onto the road, still in reverse, and sped backwards.

‘Hey! ’ Sam yelled.

With a crunch of metal and glass it slammed into the front of Sam’s patrol car.

‘Damn it, Morley! ’

He leaped from the stoop and raced across the lawn.

Morley’s car didn’t move.

As he ran toward it, the passenger window rolled down.

‘Morley, what the hell are …? ’

Two quick gunshots crashed through his words. He dived for the ground. As he hit, Morley’s car took off. He drew his revolver and snapped off four shots. Through the roar of his gunfire, he heard three slugs thunk into the car. The last missed. He took careful aim at the distant target, but decided not to shoot again. Too chancy.

Scrambling to his feet, he ran the final yards to his patrol car.

Though the front was smashed in, the engine turned over. He swung onto the road. Far ahead, Morley’s car turned right. Sam floored the accelerator.

He tried the headlights. Dead. But the flasher and siren still worked.

As he raced up the road, he grabbed his radio mike. ‘Car Five to headquarters. ’

‘Go ahead Car Five. ’

‘I’m in pursuit of a brown Fleetwood, just turned right on Maple at Oakhurst. Suspect armed. Shots fired. Any units in the area? Over. ’

Easing off the gas, he skidded around the corner onto Maple and spotted the car a block ahead. This was a residential street, cars parked along both curbs, the streetlamps widely spaced leaving deep swaths of darkness in the middle where the spinning red of his flasher made his only light.

His radio crackled. ‘Car Three is responding. What’s your ten-twenty? ’

‘Heading west on Maple, approaching Tenth. ’

Yards ahead, a tiny white-sheeted figure stepped out from behind a parked car. Sam hit the brakes. He saw the ghost turn toward him and drop its grocery bag. A little witch grabbed the ghost’s sheet and pulled.

Sam wrenched his steering wheel to the left.

The parked station wagon looked bloody in his flasher.

He flung up his arms.

Pain blasted through him, but only for an instant.

Chet Goodman, in Car Three, sped up Maple from the east until he spotted a car in the middle of the road. At first, he thought it was coming his way. Then he realized it wasn’t moving at all.

Several yards in front of it, he stopped.

The car was nearly invisible beyond the glare of its headlights. He trained his spotlight on it. A brown Fleetwood.

He picked up his mike. ‘Car Three to headquarters. ’

‘Go ahead Car Three. ’

‘The suspect vehicle is stopped on Maple between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets. No sign of Car Five. I’ll give him a minute to catch up. ’

He aimed the spotlight at the windshield, and saw no one.

Removing his Browning from its clamp, he climbed from the car and crouched behind its open door. He pumped a cartridge into the chamber and aimed his shotgun at the Fleetwood’s windshield.

‘Trouble, officer? ’ asked a voice behind him.

He looked over his shoulder and a tall, smiling man shot him in the face.

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