The Cry of the Owl (30 page)

The plastic clothesline Robert wanted was not in the first carton he looked into, or the second. He found it finally in the carton that held his galoshes and most of his shoes. He unwound the pink cord as he walked to the door. Kolbe was standing in the light near the front porch, staring at him, his rifle held across his body, ready to swing up. Greg stood a few yards away.

“Where’s his gun, Mr. Forester?” Kolbe asked.

“Inside,” Robert said, jerking his head.

“Would you get it for him?” said Kolbe.

It took Robert an instant to grasp what he meant. “Hell, no, I’m not going to get it for him,” Robert said, and started with the clothesline toward Greg, who retreated a step. Greg’s arms twitched, ready to fight. Robert clenched his own right fist, and just as he was about to hit Greg, Kolbe’s voice said, “Stand where you are, Forester!”

Robert turned to Kolbe, stepped back so he could see both Kolbe and Greg. “Maybe you don’t get it, Mr. Kolbe. This is Greg Wyncoop, the fellow who’s been doing the shooting. His hair may be crew cut, but you can see—”

“Is ’at so?” said Kolbe. “Well, if it is or it isn’t, who’re you to be tying anybody up?” Kolbe’s bushy gray eyebrows came down. “You go in and get his gun. Or I’m gonna use mine on you.”

Robert only gasped as he started to speak. Kolbe jerked his rifle toward him, still holding it crosswise. “Why don’t you let me call the police?” Robert said. “Let them decide. All right?”

Kolbe smiled on one side of his mouth. His gaze at Robert wavered like a liar’s. “Get that gun, Forester.
He
says he’s not Wyncoop. Why should I take your word?” Then Kolbe’s heavy body turned a little, and he walked toward the house, still keeping the gun on Robert. “Come on.”

Robert walked up his front steps, into the house. The gun was lying on the writing table.

“I’m watching you. Pick it up by the barrel,” Kolbe said in a growling tone.

Robert smiled nervously. What good would it do him to pick it up by the handle, to point it at Kolbe? Kolbe would blow his head
off, Robert would shoot Kolbe in the stomach, and what good would that be? Robert picked it up by the barrel.

“Now march out that door and hand it to him.”

Robert walked out the door. Greg was standing where he had been, or maybe a couple of steps farther from the house. Midway, Robert stopped.

“Go on,” said Kolbe.

Greg advanced for the gun, advanced as if he were afraid of Robert. His wide mouth hung a little loose. “Murderer,” he said as he grasped the gun.

Robert’s empty right hand dropped at his side. He watched Greg put the gun in the pocket of his black raincoat. Then Greg swung himself around and started for the road, walking fast, weaving a little. In five seconds, he had vanished into the darkness. Robert turned to Kolbe, glanced at his rifle, then walked past him toward the front steps. Kolbe blusteringly walked beside him, put his foot first on the steps.

Robert stopped. “Any objections if I telephone the police? Or do you disapprove of the police?”

“Naw, I don’t disapprove of the police,” Kolbe said doggedly.

“Good.” But after all, Robert thought, why not disapprove of the police? What good did they do?

Kolbe didn’t come into the house. He stood on the porch, watching Robert through the open door.

Maybe he was going to wait, Robert thought, just long enough to hear if the police were coming or not. And maybe he was planning now what to say to them, such as, “He didn’t look like
Wyncoop to
me
, and he said he wasn’t. … Forester had the gun when I come up.”

The telephone rang just before Robert’s hand touched it. He picked it up.

“This is the Rittersville Hospital,” said a woman’s voice. “Is this Mr. Forester?”

“Yes.”

“We are sorry to report that Dr. Knott’s condition has worsened in the last hour. His heartbeat’s very much weaker. He’s in an oxygen tent now, but the doctors give him less than a fifty-fifty chance. …” The voice went smoothly on.

Robert shut his eyes, saying, “Yes … Yes, thank you.” He hung up and looked at Kolbe, who was now standing just inside the room, at his hulking six-foot frame, his lumpy, reddish peasant’s face, his eyes that looked less intelligent than those of the dog that had been shot last night.

“What’s that?” asked Kolbe, meaning the telephone call.

“Nothing,” Robert said, and picked up the telephone to call the Rittersville police. He changed his mind and called the Langley police. “This is Robert Forester, Gursetter Road. Never mind writing it. Gregory Wyncoop was just here and he’ll probably be—he may be in Langley in a few minutes, maybe looking for a bus or a taxi out. He’s wearing a black raincoat and his hair is crew cut. And he’s carrying a gun.” Robert put the telephone down, and looked at Kolbe again. Kolbe had not moved. He was still looking at Robert as if he were afraid Robert would try to bolt out the door, or as if Robert might make some violent move against him. “Would you like to sit down, Mr. Kolbe?”

“Nope. No, thanks.”

Robert looked at the telephone again, and with a sense of futility picked it up and dialed the operator and gave the Rittersville police-headquarters number, which he now recalled. He asked for Lippenholtz, but Lippenholtz was not in.

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Forester?” asked the male voice.

“Gregory Wyncoop has just come and gone,” Robert said. “I called the Langley police a couple of minutes ago, because he’s probably headed that way.”

“You’re sure it was Wyncoop? You got a good look at him?”

“A very good look.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Two or three minutes ago.”

“Umm. Well—we’ll send out an alert. We’ll send somebody over to talk to you, too,” he added.

Robert hung up. When would they send somebody over, he wondered. Right away? In an hour? “The police are coming over,” Robert said to Kolbe. “From Rittersville.”

“Awright,” said Kolbe.

Robert had hoped Kolbe might relax his guard, since the police were coming over, but Kolbe still stood there like a big Minute Man with his rifle ready. “Like a drink?” Robert said, picking up his iceless, half-finished glass.

“Don’t touch it,” said Kolbe.

Robert pulled up the straight chair, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

“Neddie? Are you there, Neddie?” called a woman’s voice.

“I’m in here, Louise!” Kolbe called over his shoulder.

Robert heard the woman’s tread on the porch. She stood wide-eyed in the doorway, a broad, solid woman of about fifty with a face
like a pan of flour, her hands in the pockets of an old coat-sweater. “What’s happened, Neddie?”

“This fellow had a gun when I come up,” said Kolbe. “Said another fellow here was this here Wyncoop they’re looking for.”

“Land’s sakes,” murmured the woman, staring at Robert as if she had never seen him before, though she and Robert had nodded and said “Good morning” or “Good evening” to each other a dozen times since Robert had been living in the house.

Robert smoked on in silence.

“Drunkard besides,” Kolbe said.

There was a bus to Trenton at eleven-fifteen, the last bus, and from Trenton Greg intended to take a train to New York. New York was still the best place to hide out in, near to Nickie in case he needed more money. He wanted to rest up a bit and plan his next move. There was a terrible knot on his head, but luckily no bleeding, or very little, only from a scrape, and it hadn’t run down into his shirt. Greg wanted nothing so much as a bed to fall down on. He had about fifteen minutes to kill before the bus, so he went into a coffee shop across the street from the bus station. It was safer than sitting on a bench in the bus-station waiting room, he thought, though he wasn’t sure Forester would have reported him to the police as yet. That friendly neighbor with the hunting rifle might not let him. Greg smiled to himself, thinking of all Forester’s friendly neighbors. He had found out very easily where Forester was on Saturday night, for instance. He had called up one of Forester’s neighbors whose name he happened to remember from seeing it on a mailbox: Huxmeyer.
Greg had said he lived nearby, and was Forester still in his house? Mrs. Huxmeyer had been only too glad to tell him—without asking who he was—that Forester’s car had gone past her house that morning about eleven and so had the doctor’s car, Dr. Knott of Rittersville, who had been crazy enough to stay with him all night, and she hoped Forester wasn’t going to come back, because she had seen last night that he was all packed up and ready to go, and good riddance to him. The papers today had said the doctor was still holding his own. Greg was sorry he had hit the old guy. He had wanted to wait for Forester to come running down after the shot, but the gunshot in that neighborhood so full of private houses had scared him, and he had run as soon as he fired.

When Greg looked into the mirror behind the rack of pies in front of him, his faint smile went away. He dabbled a paper napkin in his glass of water and wiped a smudge of dirt off his cheek. There were dark circles under his eyes. He needed a shave. Then he remembered, with a twinge of regret, going by the place where he’d tossed his suitcase, not far from Forester’s house. He hadn’t wanted to be burdened with it. Well, there was nothing of value in the suitcase, anyway, a dollar razor, a toothbrush, a couple of dirty shirts. He still had his gun. He ate his hamburger. It was a lousy little hamburger, the meat thin and smelling like rancid grease, but he put a lot of ketchup on it and wolfed it down. Then he left fifty cents in order to avoid being looked at again by the girl behind the counter, and shoved off for the bus station.

The bus was going to be hardly half full, he saw. He hadn’t bought his ticket. He was going to buy it from the driver. Greg was lifting a foot to the first step of the bus when a hand touched his shoulder.
Greg looked around and saw a man in a blue suit with a hat on, and a man just behind his shoulder, looking at him in the same intense way. Greg went limp for a second, then tensed again.

“Go ahead,” Greg said, gesturing for the man to get on the bus first.

“Wyncoop?” said the man whose hand was still on his shoulder.

“That’s him, that’s him,” said the man behind him.

Greg looked to right and left. No use running, ducking, trying the gun now. He felt a spasm of hysterical tears, of a scream rising in his throat.

“You’re covered, Wyncoop. Come on.” The man’s hand moved down to his arm and took a hard grip.

The second man walked behind, with a hand in his jacket pocket. They went to a dark car parked at a stretch of curb that had bright yellow on it. Here they asked for his gun, and Greg pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to them. They motioned for him to get into the car. He got into the back with the second man. Now a third man joined them, smiling, and got into the front seat beside the driver. Then they began to talk about him as if he were some animal they had bagged. The man driving chuckled. They mentioned someone called Lippenholtz.

“Looks like that doctor’s going to die,” said one.

“Hm-m.”

Then the man beside the driver turned half around and simply stared at Greg with a calm, smiling expression for several seconds.

Greg stared back at him. He’d have his say yet. He had plenty to say.

“Were you on your way to New York, Wyncoop?”

“Yeah,” Greg said.

“What’s there?” in a smiling, bantering tone.

“Friends. Lots of friends,” Greg answered.

“Who?”

Greg didn’t answer.

Greg had never seen the Langley police station before, didn’t remember ever driving by it. They took him in, past a police officer who sat at a table in the hall, into a room to the left where several officers in shirtsleeves worked behind a long counter.

“Gregory Wyncoop,” said one of the men with Greg. “Just picked him up at the bus station.”

All the heads lifted. The officers looked at him with interest.

“Tell the boys in Rittersville,” said another of the plainclothesmen. “Tell Lippenholtz.”

Then one of the officers behind the counter carried a big ledger to a desk at the back of the room. Greg was asked his name, age, address, place of employment, and employer. Two of the plain-clothesmen stayed to listen. The third wandered away as if bored. Then Greg was told to sit down on a bench, and one of the plain-clothesmen began to ask him questions. Where had he spent the last few days? In a hotel in Plympton. It was a town about fifteen miles from Langley. Had he fired the shot into the doctor’s house last night? Yes. Had he fired the shots into Forester’s house in Langley? Yes. On two occasions? Yes. Had he gone to Forester’s house tonight? Yes. Greg answered doggedly, nodding with each yes. Had he gone to New York during the two weeks he had been hiding out? Yes. Where had he stayed there? In a hotel. Which hotel? Greg was bored, the questions tedious. He writhed under them as he could remember writhing in school as a kid, when he had been
asked to name the five principal rivers of South America, to name the chief mountain ranges of the United States. His voice was a monotone, not like his own.

“Can I have a drink?” Greg asked. “I need one. I’d do better with a drink.”

The man questioning him smiled a little, and asked the officer writing at the desk, “Can he have a drink, Stew? I suppose he can have a drink, eh?”

“
In vino veritas
, they say,” said the shirtsleeved officer. “I think there’s some in that locker.”

The plainslothesman went to the other corner of the room, and came back pouring whiskey from a bottle into a paper cup. “Water?”

“No,” Greg said, and took the cup gratefully. He drank half at one gulp.

“Now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” said the plain-clothesman. “What happened at the river the night you fought with Forester?”

Greg didn’t answer for a moment.

“Who went after who? You’ve got your drink, Wyncoop, doesn’t it loosen your tongue? If you’re bored with my questions, you’re going to get a hell of a lot more from the Rittersville police. Who went after who?”

“I went after him,” Greg said. “I wanted to beat him up, but he wanted to kill me. Tried to knock me in the river and he did, twice. The second time—I barely made it out. Forester was gone. I think I must’ve hit my head on something, because I was like—out on my feet. When I really came to, I was somewhere way out on the road—”