shouting, searching, seeking. The murderer most certainly was deeply shocked.
Could I take advantage of that shock?
It was hard to estimate how much time had passed since Kim’s car tumbled into the pit. Fifteen minutes, perhaps? If the marksman was in a car, that was time enough in a town as small as Adelaide to leave the abandoned plant far behind.
I didn’t hesitate. I intended to observe Susan’s heirs as quickly as possible.
The front porch light was on at Harrison and Charlotte Hammond’s house. Inside, I found the lower floor dark. Light glowed from the top of the stairs. In the master bedroom, Charlotte sat propped in bed with two pillows, reading a novel. Harrison’s side of the bed was untouched. I went to Harrison Hammond’s construction company. Large outdoor lighting illuminated a parking area. The supply warehouse was dark, as was the small single-story frame office. Where was Harrison Hammond?
Next I arrived at Pritchard House. A dim light glowed near a side door of the garage. Inside, I turned on the overhead light and moved from car to car, seeking telltale heat. None of the hoods was warm, but the garage was quite cold. It wouldn’t take long for any heat to dissipate. As I returned to the light switch, I saw two bicycles. I was thoughtful as I stepped toward them. I moved one, swung onto the seat. The tires were firm. I squinted to remember. Though the road was hilly and winding, the brick plant was no more than a mile away.
I doubted the police had discovered how the marksman had traveled to or from the abandoned brick plant. The sounds of a departing car would easily have been lost as the police spread out to search and turned on their headlights to afford more light. But the murderer could have ridden a bicycle or approached on foot.
In the kitchen of Pritchard House, Jake Flynn closed the refrigerator door, carried the remnants of a baked ham to the counter. Her face drawn and pasty, she put together a sandwich with ham, lettuce, Swiss cheese, and mustard. She opened a Coke and sat at the white wooden table. She ate as if starved. Was food her succor when stressed? It was nearing midnight. She wore a black velour pullover and trousers and boots, a good costume to move unseen in the dark.
In Peg and Keith’s room, Peg was propped up in bed with two pillows behind her, staring emptily toward the wall. She looked forlorn and depressed. I knelt for an instant by Keith’s bed, lightly touched his shoulder. He was curled against Big Bob, sunk in a deep sleep.
In Peg’s bedroom now turned over to Gina, the room was dark and very cold. Gina sat in a chair near the open window, smoking. In the wash of moonlight, her face was pale, her expression strained and fearful. She stared out into the night. Abruptly, she jammed the cigarette stub into an ashtray. “I’m scared. God, I’m scared…” Her voice was desolate, defeated, despairing.
I had no luck at the home of Dave Lewis’s brother. The guest bedroom was dark and untenanted.
A Tiffany lamp on a side table glowed in the living room of the ranch house on Burnt Creek. I moved from room to room. A black Lab trotted toward me, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. I held out a hand and he sniffed. From the front hall to the back porch, there was no one in the house but me and the Lab. I dropped on one knee, gently massaged the Lab’s throat. “Where is he, boy?” The Lab pushed against me. Then he lifted his head, turned, and thudded toward the front door.
I sped outside.
A horse and rider trotted down a dirt road, clearly visible in the moonlight. The rider dismounted, opened a gate, drew the horse through, closed the gate. Once again astride the horse, the rider lifted the reins and the horse headed for the barn. As the door was pulled wide and a light flicked on, Tucker Satterlee moved with easy grace, leading the horse inside.
I watched as he loosened the saddle. As I remembered my geography, Burnt Creek was a couple of miles from the brick plant. There were country roads Tucker would know well. At an easy pace, the ride could be made in a half hour. The east gate was no barrier to a man accustomed to using wire cutters.
The murderer had likely pulled the gate wide and either driven, walked, biked, or, in Tucker’s case, ridden a horse to a hill overlooking the pit and waited in the shadow of the trees for Kim to arrive. As the PT Cruiser came through the gate, the rifle was lifted. When the car passed through the security light, the rifle fired. One shot and the car careened out of control.
The eruption of light, the shouts of the police, the headlights of the police cars must have shocked the murderer into immobility. But not for long. Unseen and unheard, the murderer slipped away, either to a car or bicycle hidden in shadows beyond the gate, or, if Tucker, to a tethered horse.
Inside the barn, Tucker’s sheepskin jacket hung from a hook near the door. Tucker carried the saddle and blanket to the tack room. I didn’t see a rifle or a scabbard for a rifle. He returned with a bucket of water for the horse.
I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Where were the wire cutters? Where was the rifle? Where was the rifle scabbard?
The hook where his coat hung was behind him. Quickly, I checked the pockets, both exterior and interior. A ball of twine. Two oblongs of bubble gum. A crumpled map. A half-eaten energy bar.
No wire cutter.
The horse drank, then lifted her head. He gave her a pat. “Good girl,” and began to walk her up and down.
I shook my head in self-irritation. The man might be a killer, but he was no fool. When pandemonium erupted as the Cruiser tumbled into the pit, the murderer knew immediately that Kim’s death would clearly be recognized as murder. There were ponds, a small lake, and brush-thick gullies between the brick plant and Burnt Creek, and, of course, between the brick plant and Pritchard House or Harrison Hammond’s office or home.
If Tucker Satterlee rode out tonight equipped to commit murder, he was smart enough on his return to jettison anything that could be linked to the crime. As a rancher, he would have several rifles. If he had carried a rifle tonight, I felt certain it could not be traced to him. As for wire cutters and a rifle scabbard, he likely had several of both. The lack of a firearm was no proof of his innocence.
Still, he had been out on a horse on a cold winter night. What innocent reason could there be?
If I tried to alert Chief Cobb, it would take a good while before anyone would be dispatched to question Tucker. If Tucker was the murderer, the longer time he had to relax and formulate an alibi, the less likely he was to reveal guilt when questioned.
