mine and you’re also a dead man. You don’t want that.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care, all right. I can see it in your face. You don’t want to die tonight, Mister Chalfont.”
That was right: he didn’t. The death light wasn’t there for himself, either.
“I have to make them pay,” he said.
“You’re already made Barlow pay. Just look at him…he’s paying right now. Why put him out of his misery?”
For a little time Chalfont stood rigid, the pistol drawn in tightly under his breastbone. Then his tongue poked out between his lips and stayed there, the way a cat’s will. It made him look cross-eyed, and for the first time, uncertain.
“You don’t want to die,” I said again. “Admit it. You don’t want to die.”
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
“And you don’t want the clerk or me to die, right? That could happen if shooting starts. Innocent blood on your hands.”
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t want that.”
I’d already taken two slow, careful steps toward him; I tried another, longer one. The pistol’s muzzle stayed centered on Barlow’s chest. I watched Chalfont’s index finger. It seemed to have relaxed on the trigger. His two- handed grip on the weapon appeared looser, too.
“Let me have the gun, Mister Chalfont.”
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
Another step, slow, slow, with my hand extended.
“Give me the gun. You don’t want to die tonight. Nobody has to die tonight. Let me have the gun.”
One more step. And all at once the outrage, the hate, the lust for revenge went out of his eyes, like a slate wiped suddenly clean, and he brought the pistol away from his chest one-handed and held it out without looking at me. I took it gently, dropped it into my coat pocket.
Situation diffused. Just like that.
The clerk let out an explosive breath, and said-“Oh, man!”-almost reverently. Barlow slumped against the counter, whimpered, and then called Chalfont a couple of obscene names. But he was too wrapped up in himself and his relief to work up much anger at the little guy. He wouldn’t look at me, either.
I took Chalfont’s arm, steered him around behind the counter, and sat him down on a stool back there. He wore a glazed look now, and his tongue was back out between his lips. Docile, disoriented. Broken.
“Call the law,” I said to the clerk. “Local or county, whichever’ll get here the quickest.”
“County,” he said. He picked up the phone.
“Tell them to bring a paramedic unit with them.”
“Yes, sir.” Then he said: “Hey! Hey, that other guy’s leaving.”
I swung around. Barlow had slipped over to the door; it was just closing behind him. I snapped at the kid to watch Chalfont and ran outside after Barlow.
He was getting into the Buick parked at the gas pumps. He slammed the door, but I got there fast enough to yank it open before he could lock it.
“You’re not going anywhere, Barlow.”
“You can’t keep me here…”
“The hell I can’t.”
I ducked my head and leaned inside. He tried to fight me. I jammed him back against the seat with my forearm, reached over with the other hand, and pulled the keys out of the ignition. No more struggle then. I released him, backed clear. “Get out of the car.”
He came out in loose, shaky segments. Leaned against the open door, looking at me with fear-soaked eyes.
“Why the hurry to leave? Why so afraid of me?”
“I’m not afraid of you…”
“Sure you are. As much as you were of Chalfont and his gun. Maybe more. It was in your face when I said I was a cop. It’s there now. And you’re still sweating like a pig. Why?”
That floppy headshake again. He still wasn’t making eye contact.
“Why’d you come here tonight? This particular place?”
“I needed gas.”
“Chalfont said he followed you for twenty miles. There must be an open service station closer to your house than this one. Late at night, rainy…why drive this far?”
Headshake.
“Must be you didn’t realize you were almost out of gas until you got on the road,” I said. “Too distracted, maybe. Other things on your mind. Like something that happened tonight at your house, something you were afraid Chalfont might have seen if he’d been spying through windows.”
I opened the Buick’s back door. Seat and floor were both empty. Around to the rear, then, where I slid one of his keys into the trunk lock.
“No!” Barlow came stumbling back there, pawed at me, tried to push me away. I shouldered him aside instead, got the key turned and the trunk lid up.
The body stuffed inside was wrapped in a plastic sheet. One pale arm lay exposed, the fingers bent and hooked. I pulled some of the sheet away, just enough for a brief look at the dead woman’s face. Mottled, the tongue protruding and blackened. Strangled.
“Noreen Chalfont,” I said. “Where were you taking her, Barlow? Some remote spot in the mountains for burial?”
He made a keening, hurt-animal sound. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean to kill her…we had an argument about the money and I lost my head. I didn’t know what I was doing…I didn’t mean to kill her…”
His legs quit supporting him; he sat down hard on the pavement with legs splayed out and head down. He didn’t move after that, except for the heaving of his chest. His face was wetter than ever, a mingling now of sweat and drizzle and tears.
I looked over at the misted store window.
I closed the trunk lid and stood there in the cold, waiting for the law.
Sometimes it happens like this, too. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, and still things work out all right. For some of the people involved, anyway.
Irrefutable Evidence A Sharon McCone Story
I tossed the pinecone from hand to hand and looked up at the tree it had fallen from. It was perhaps twenty feet tall and very dense, with branches that swept the ground except on its left-hand side, where they were bent and sheared off. A young bristlecone pine, hundreds of years old and still growing. In the high elevations of California’s White Mountains, where the tule elk and wild mustangs range, there are bristlecones over 4,000 years old-some say the oldest living things on the face of the earth. Years ago, I’d made one of the better decisions of my life while lying under such a pine; today, I’d been hoping this tree would yield evidence that would help me identify a killer.
No such luck.
After a time I turned away and, still holding the pinecone, retraced my steps to my rented Jeep. I tossed the cone on the passenger’s seat, got in, and cranked up the air-conditioning. The temperature was in the midnineties-August heat. I eased the vehicle over the rocky, sloping ground to the secondary road, bumped along it for two miles, then turned southwest onto Route 168 toward Big Pine, a town of 1,350 nestled in a valley between
