"What's that, Alan?" Henry had asked, but Alan saw with a sinking feeling that Henry was listening to him with only half an ear. His old friend-the first real friend Alan had made in the wider law-enforcement community after winning the job as Sheriff, and a very valuable friend he had turned out to be-was already concentrating on other things. How he would deploy his forces, given the wide spread of the incidents, was probably chief among them.
"You need to find out if Henry Beaufort was as angry at Hugh Priest as Hugh apparently was at him. You can't ask him now, I understand he's unconscious, but when he wakes up-"
"Will do," Henry said, and clapped Alan on the shoulder. "Will do." Then, raising his voice: "Brooks! Morrison! Over here!"
Alan watched him move off and thought of going after him. Of grabbing him and making him listen. He didn't do it, because Henry and Hugh and Lester and John-even Wilma and Nettle were beginning to lose any feeling of real importance to him. The dead were dead; the wounded were being looked after; the crimes had been committed.
Except Alan had a terrible, sneaking suspicion that the real crime was still going on.
When Henry had walked away to brief his men, Alan had called Clut over once again. The Deputy came with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a morose look on his face. "We been replaced, Alan," he said. "Taken right out of the picture. God damn!"
"Not entirely," Alan said, hoping he sounded as if he really believed this. "You're going to be my liaison here, Clut."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Rusk house."
But when he got there, both Brian and Sean Rusk were gone.
The ambulance which was taking care of the unfortunate Scott Garson had swung by to pick up Sean; they were on their way to Northern Cumberland Hospital. Harry Samuels's second hearse, an old converted Lincoln, had gotten Brian Rusk and would take him to Oxford, pending autopsy. Harry's better hearse the one he referred to as "the company car"-had already left for the same place with Hugh and Billy Tupper.
Alan thought, The bodies will be stacked in that tiny morgue over there like cordwood.
It was when he got to the Rusk home that Alan realized-in his gut as well as in his head-how completely he had been taken out of the play. Two of Henry's C.I.D. men were there ahead of him, and they made it clear that Alan could hang around only as long as he didn't try to stick in an oar and help them row. He had stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching them, feeling about as useful as a third wheel on a motor-scooter. Cora Rusk's responses were slow, almost doped.
Alan thought it might be shock, or perhaps the ambulance attendants who were transporting her remaining son to the hospital had given her some prescription mercy before they left. She reminded him eerily of the way Norris had looked as he had crawled from the window of his overturned VW.
Whether it was because of a tranquilizer or just shock, the detectives weren't getting much of value from her. She wasn't quite weeping, but she was clearly unable to concentrate on their questions enough to make helpful responses. She didn't know anything, she told them; she had been upstairs, taking a nap. Poor Brian, she kept saying.
Poor, poor Brian. But she expressed this sentiment in a drone which Alan found creepy, and she kept toying with a pair of old sunglasses which lay beside her on the kitchen table. One of the bows had been mended with adhesive tape, and one of the lenses was cracked.
Alan had left in disgust and come here, to the hospital.
Now he got up and went to the pay telephone down the hall in the main lobby. He tried Polly again, got no answer, and then dialled the Sheriff's Office. The voice which answered growled, "State Police," and Alan felt a childish surge of jealousy. He identified himself and asked for Clut. After a wait of almost five minutes, Clut came on the line.
"Sorry, Alan. They just let the phone lay there on the desk.
Lucky I came over to check, or you'd still be waiting. Darned old Staties don't care one bit about us."
"Don't worry about it, Clut. Has anyone collared Keeton yet?"
"Well... I don't know how to tell you this, Alan, but. -."
Alan felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach and closed his eyes.
He had been right; it wasn't over.
"Just tell me," he said. "Never mind the protocol."
"Buster-Danforth, I mean@rove home and used a screwdriver to knock the doorhandle off his Cadillac. You know, where he was cuffed."
"I know," Alan agreed. His eyes were still shut.
"Well... he killed his wife, Alan. With a hammer. It wasn't a State cop that found her, because the Staties weren't much interested in Buster up to twenty minutes ago. It was Seat Thomas. He drove by Buster's house to double check. He reported in what he found, and got back here not five minutes ago. He's having chest pains, he says, and I'm not surprised. He told me that Buster took her face 'bout right off. Said there's guts and hair everyplace. There's a platoon or so of Payton's bluejackets up there on the View now.
I put Seat in your office. Figured he better sit down before he fell down."
4 6 Jesus Christ, Clut-take him over to Ray Van Allen, fast. He's sixty-two and been smoking Camels all his damn life."
"Ray went to Oxford, Alan. He's trying to help the doctors patch up Henry Beaufort."
"His P.A. then-what's his name? Frankel. Everett Frankel."