The Man in the Tree (6 page)
Read The Man in the Tree Online
Authors: Damon Knight
Chapter Five
Cooley heard the shot, swore, and butted his way out of the tree house. He
saw the kid at the base of the tree, but had only a glance to spare him,
because Jerry was lying on the slope a few yards away, spread-eagled on
the ground, jerking and twitching like a rag doll on a string. Cooley got
down the tree as fast as he could and knelt beside him. Jerry's eyes were
rolled back in their sockets; his skin was turning blue. The jerking of
his limbs stopped with a final shudder. His face turned darker until it
was indigo blue, the color of ink, color of venous blood. His pants-leg
was wet, and there was a fecal smell. Cooley had seen dead men before,
and knew better, but he unbuttoned Jerry's shirt and put his hand on
his chest.
After a minute he stood up and looked at the kid. Blood was pulsing out
through the wet spot on his shirt and there was more of it spattered
over the brush behind him. His eyes were closed, mouth open. His skin
was yellowish-white. Not dead yet, but soon.
"Jesus
Christ
." said Cooley, and hit the tree with his fist. He sat
down and put his head in his hands; warm tears were leaking out of his
eyes. What the hell was he going to do now, leave both bodies there and
just walk away? Pretend he didn't know a thing about it? That would be
too much of a coincidence. What a hell of a time for a heart attack. They
might not find the bodies here for years, maybe never, but he couldn't
count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep
his mouth shut?
He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver
from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He
knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into
Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and
stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight
down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once
more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again,
he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He
smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt
and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves
at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and
wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the
barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right,
closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped
the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the
boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.
Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest
farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four
men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two,
Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under
the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of
blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."
"Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one,
would you?"
The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't
find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid
had gone.
Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell,
who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over
his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He
called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been
notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung
up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said,
"I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route
thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.
Cooley, fretting, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff
Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties,
running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his
car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"
"Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he
shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."
"Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"
"Got a tip from Steve Logan."
"Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one
curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at
the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."
"That's right."
"And where were you?"
"Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."
"'Bout what time was that?"
"Little after one."
"Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"
"No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when
I come back from phoning, he was gone."
Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver
lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith &
Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing
was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid
was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his
gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"
Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an
awful thing."
They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a stand of young vine
maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when
he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it,
then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding
in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over
there -- you be the kid, Tom."
Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver.
"Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the
kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed
at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"
"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..
"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun
goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera,
took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"
"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.
"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his
arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right
in the chest."
"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The
kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then
the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."
"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up
there?"
"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to
get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."
"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door
up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later,
he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted
to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it,
and lowered it to the ground.
He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked
up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then
dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped
the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said.
"Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley
untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down
the slope.
"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said.
After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"
"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first
thing."
When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley
dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns
carefully in the back seat.
"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said.
"Check with you later, Wayne."
"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through
yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from
there."
"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"
"That's for me to say."
Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They
drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley
helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was
sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."
"Hello, Stan."
"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach.
"Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a
table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack
of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils
and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating
the other things with one finger.
"She'll be right over," the deputy said.
"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable,
Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife7"
"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better
from you."
"Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."
The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.
"Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette
out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you
about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till
tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all
right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."
Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts
yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."
"Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the
woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.
"Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice
answered.
"This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"
"Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already,
and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.
"I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across
his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me
feel like hell."
"It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask
them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can
get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And
then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."
The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know
Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the
back. Eileen, bring your book."
In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right,
the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning,"
Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."
Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan
called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route
one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional
question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again.
About six o'ciock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after
seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement,
three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a
moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.
"Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to
me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"
"Must of stole it somewhere."
"Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree
house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in
his hand? Or else he can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on
Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand,
pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in
the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun,
or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back
and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River
police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction,
Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without
a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."
"You accusing me of something, Wayne?"
"No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone,
and you're a liar."
Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."
"That's right."
Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and
then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a
woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and !eft the room.
"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."
"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "
"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."
"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."
"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone with you,
he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned
road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car,
but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't
rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and
got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep
him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation,
even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would
need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and
a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried
anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some
essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he
didn't know how wrong.
Cooley heard the shot, swore, and butted his way out of the tree house. He
saw the kid at the base of the tree, but had only a glance to spare him,
because Jerry was lying on the slope a few yards away, spread-eagled on
the ground, jerking and twitching like a rag doll on a string. Cooley got
down the tree as fast as he could and knelt beside him. Jerry's eyes were
rolled back in their sockets; his skin was turning blue. The jerking of
his limbs stopped with a final shudder. His face turned darker until it
was indigo blue, the color of ink, color of venous blood. His pants-leg
was wet, and there was a fecal smell. Cooley had seen dead men before,
and knew better, but he unbuttoned Jerry's shirt and put his hand on
his chest.
After a minute he stood up and looked at the kid. Blood was pulsing out
through the wet spot on his shirt and there was more of it spattered
over the brush behind him. His eyes were closed, mouth open. His skin
was yellowish-white. Not dead yet, but soon.
"Jesus
Christ
." said Cooley, and hit the tree with his fist. He sat
down and put his head in his hands; warm tears were leaking out of his
eyes. What the hell was he going to do now, leave both bodies there and
just walk away? Pretend he didn't know a thing about it? That would be
too much of a coincidence. What a hell of a time for a heart attack. They
might not find the bodies here for years, maybe never, but he couldn't
count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep
his mouth shut?
He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver
from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He
knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into
Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and
stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight
down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once
more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again,
he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He
smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt
and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves
at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and
wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the
barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right,
closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped
the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the
boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.
Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest
farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four
men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two,
Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under
the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of
blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."
"Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one,
would you?"
The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't
find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid
had gone.
Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell,
who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over
his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He
called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been
notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung
up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said,
"I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route
thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.
Cooley, fretting, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff
Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties,
running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his
car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"
"Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he
shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."
"Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"
"Got a tip from Steve Logan."
"Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one
curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at
the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."
"That's right."
"And where were you?"
"Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."
"'Bout what time was that?"
"Little after one."
"Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"
"No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when
I come back from phoning, he was gone."
Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver
lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith &
Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing
was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid
was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his
gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"
Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an
awful thing."
They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a stand of young vine
maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when
he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it,
then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding
in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over
there -- you be the kid, Tom."
Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver.
"Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the
kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed
at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"
"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..
"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun
goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera,
took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"
"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.
"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his
arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right
in the chest."
"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The
kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then
the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."
"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up
there?"
"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to
get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."
"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door
up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later,
he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted
to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it,
and lowered it to the ground.
He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked
up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then
dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped
the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said.
"Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley
untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down
the slope.
"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said.
After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"
"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first
thing."
When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley
dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns
carefully in the back seat.
"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said.
"Check with you later, Wayne."
"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through
yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from
there."
"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"
"That's for me to say."
Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They
drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley
helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was
sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."
"Hello, Stan."
"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach.
"Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a
table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack
of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils
and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating
the other things with one finger.
"She'll be right over," the deputy said.
"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable,
Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife7"
"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better
from you."
"Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."
The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.
"Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette
out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you
about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till
tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all
right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."
Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts
yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."
"Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the
woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.
"Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice
answered.
"This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"
"Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already,
and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.
"I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across
his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me
feel like hell."
"It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask
them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can
get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And
then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."
The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know
Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the
back. Eileen, bring your book."
In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right,
the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning,"
Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."
Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan
called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route
one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional
question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again.
About six o'ciock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after
seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement,
three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a
moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.
"Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to
me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"
"Must of stole it somewhere."
"Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree
house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in
his hand? Or else he can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on
Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand,
pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in
the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun,
or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back
and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River
police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction,
Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without
a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."
"You accusing me of something, Wayne?"
"No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone,
and you're a liar."
Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."
"That's right."
Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and
then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a
woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and !eft the room.
"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."
"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "
"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."
"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."
"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone with you,
he'd be alive this minute."
Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned
road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car,
but the boy was gone.
Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't
rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and
got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep
him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation,
even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would
need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and
a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried
anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some
essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he
didn't know how wrong.
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